The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (34 page)

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.

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.”

The wrestlers repeated the
niramiai
two more times, rising to return to their corners, tossing a handful of salt into the ring, and coming back to the starting line, all the while turning back and never taking their eyes off each other. Hiroshi’s mouth was dry. He pulled at his black
mawashi
belt, slapped his stomach, felt his sweat pool against the edge of the taut cotton material. It was like a dance, Hiroshi thought, like all the dances done before great battles.

He heard the
gyoji
call out,
“Matta nashi,”
it’s time, holding his war paddle out vertically to signify the match was beginning. Hiroshi and Kobayashi crouched and locked eyes, breathing in and out in a unified rhythm. A thin line of sweat traveled down his opponent’s round face like a drop of water on glass. Hiroshi’s fists touched the ground for a few tense moments, just as Kobayashi’s did, until the
tachiai
brought their bodies together in a sudden impact so perfectly synchronized that each remained standing. Before Hiroshi moved again, Kobayashi grunted and grabbed hold of his
mawashi
belt on both sides; he felt the hard slap of Kobayashi’s body pushing against his, using all his weight to force him out of the
dohyo
. Just as quickly Hiroshi swung his body to the side, and grabbed the back of Kobayashi’s belt, hoping to throw him down. Instinctively, Kobayashi thrust his weight in the other direction and at that moment, Hiroshi wrapped his leg around Kobayashi’s and tripped him to the
dohyo
, using Kobayashi’s own momentum against him. Kobayashi fell hard, with a low groan. It all happened so quickly Hiroshi didn’t have time to think, but reacted just as Tanaka-oyakata had trained him.

From the moment Hiroshi had entered the
dohyo
, the world around him had stopped, only to start again when he heard the thundering applause and the cheering voices. It sounded like all of Japan had come alive just for him, and Hiroshi was determined not to let them down.

Tanaka-oyakata caught his eye as he came off the ring, nodded his head slightly in approval. He didn’t say a word to him until they were back in the locker room. Then Tanaka took him aside and told him, “You didn’t move quickly enough after the initial
tachiai
.
That’s what wins or loses a match. You were lucky. Remember your weaknesses and learn from your mistakes.”

Hiroshi bowed. He knew Tanaka-oyakata was right, but what did it matter if he was a split second late; he had won, hadn’t he? What more did Tanaka want?

After the match, when all the other
rikishi
had gone to sleep, Hiroshi soaked in the
ofuro
for a long time, relaxing in the warm, steamy air. The victory played over and over in his head, each maneuver flickering through his mind like a movie. Most
rikishi
had particular wrestling strategies they favored, although it was important to vary them. To become overly dependent on any one tactic was a sure giveaway.