The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (33 page)

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 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.”