The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (31 page)

After morning practice, Hiroshi and Fukuda’s real work of the day began. They were also
tsukebito
, apprentices assigned to assist Sekiwake Daishima. In hierarchical order, each lower-ranked wrestler was also responsible for cooking, cleaning the practice room, doing all the laundry, scrubbing the backs and washing the hair of all the higher-ranked wrestlers. By noon, while the other wrestlers ate and bathed, Hiroshi and Fukuda stayed to clean up the training area. The towels were covered with dirt from the
dohyo
, the air thick with the musty stink of earth and sweat. Hiroshi was starving, having eaten nothing since the night before. He felt a gnawing in the pit of his stomach, though it was a different kind of hunger than he’d experienced during the war. Whereas bitterness lined his stomach then, now it was a raw need that burned within him, a need to do his best, to be the best. While food gave Hiroshi the sustenance to train, Fukuda never had enough to eat. Good-natured and with a sweet disposition, he came from a school in the countryside, where Tanaka had recruited him earlier in the year. Hiroshi wondered if Fukuda had the right temperament to be a
sumotori
. Most of the wrestlers grew stronger and harder with each fight, planning and calculating what might bring down their opponent the next time in the ring. Not Fukuda. While he had the size and bulk, there was something inherently gentle about him.

There was little time to waste. After cleaning up the practice room, Hiroshi had to give the demanding, difficult Sekiwake Daishima a
massage and wash his hair. Then the highest-ranked
sumotori
would enjoy a long, hot soak, while all the other wrestlers waited their turns. Hiroshi swept quickly and watered down the
dohyo
, threw salt into the ring to purify it, and placed a Shinto
gohei
, a wooden stick with white paper folded around it, upright in the ring to mark the area as sacred.

Daishima was waiting for Hiroshi in the soaking room. The warm, damp air let him know the coals had been lit and the water was hot and ready for soaking. The
sekiwake
sat on a low wooden stool and poured cold water from a bucket over his head. He turned and grunted when he heard Hiroshi approach, which always signaled he wasn’t in a talkative mood.

“Sekiwake Daishima, I’m sorry to be late.” Hiroshi bowed, then opened and closed his hands, stretching his fingers so they wouldn’t be tired after kneading Daishima’s thick shoulders and his bear of a back.

Daishima grunted again, lowered his head and leaned forward for his massage. Hiroshi began kneading his thick neck, working his fingers to loosen the tight muscles. Fukuda had been chastised repeatedly for not giving Daishima an adequate massage. The entire stable heard him dismissing Fukuda for a fool. From then on, Hiroshi had taken on the task, while Fukuda transported the
chanko
from the main house to the stable for their first meal of the day. He felt the
sekiwake’s
neck muscles relax as his fingers squeezed harder, dug deeper.

“It’s understandable that you’re late,” Daishima retorted, his booming voice filling the humid room. “Of course it would take you longer to get up off the
dohyo
this morning after our match.”

“Hai,”
Hiroshi answered. He’d learned quickly to always agree with whatever Daishima said.

The
sekiwake
laughed and swung a wet towel over his head. “To the left,” he directed.

Hiroshi shifted his attention to the left side of his neck. The stable was too small to butt heads with the highest-ranked
sumotori
. He
would bide his time, doing what was expected of him as he climbed the ranks. It was the sumo way, one of honor and hard work. Most important, he wanted to restore hope to his country and countrymen, much as Yokozuna Futabayama had done during the war. Not until Futabayama retired was his secret revealed to the public: he was blind in one eye. It didn’t matter if it would be hours before Hiroshi could eat and lower his own tired body into the lukewarm water of the soaking tub, too exhausted to bother with heating the coals, even if there were any left.

Akira Yoshiwara spent the coldest weeks of his second winter in the village of Aio snowed in, cocooned in blankets and huddled in his room writing and drawing, while Nazo paced back and forth, jumping up on the wood table, his cat eyes narrowing at the falling snow, which meant another afternoon in captivity. He glanced about the room before he settled down to licking his paws.

Through the window Akira saw nothing but a blinding whiteness that hurt his eyes. All thoughts of walking the mile up the mountain road amid the storm that morning were quickly surrendered. The mountains could be harsh and temperamental. He thought of Emiko and Kiyo, the mother’s measured words balancing the daughter’s endless chatter, and admitted to himself that he missed their company, their voices, both soft and boisterous, and the warmth of other bodies near his.

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.

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.

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.”