The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (36 page)

“Kenji-san?”

He looked up, heart beating, his neck sticky with sweat.

“Kenji Matsumoto?”

He was surprised to find it was Mika speaking to him.
“Hai,”
he said, bowing.

“We had a drawing class together.” She smiled. “I’m Mika Abe. And this is Sachiko-san.”

“Hai,”
he said, and tried to remain steady. “It’s nice to see you both.” He bowed again, unable to take his eyes off her face, her slightly high forehead, the straight bridge of her nose, and her dark, challenging gaze.

“We haven’t seen much of you in the art department,” she continued.

“I’m over at the architecture department now.” He pulled away to glance quickly at Sachiko, who appeared distracted.

Mika smiled. “Ah,” she said. She looked over at Sachiko. “We should be going now.”

“I hope to see you again,” he stammered.

Mika smiled and nodded.

He watched them walk off until they disappeared among the flock of other students gathered at the plaza. But as Kenji walked back toward the studio, he only heard her soft, melodious voice say his name over and over again.

Mika Abe knew who he was.

In May, the street of a thousand blossoms came alive again, and the warm wind carried its sweet scent to Yoshio. Azaleas, lilies, and freesia bloomed in window boxes and gardens that once grew vegetables under the orders of the
kempeitai
until they were dug up and transformed into air-raid shelters. The same dirt turned over and over again, and still it produced life. Yoshio smiled at the thought. His family, too, had survived.

In the five years since he’d been completely blind, Yoshio Wada had discovered many other ways to see. Sitting in his old wooden chair in the courtyard, he faced the warmth of the sun and breathed in deeply. The thick, humid air tasted of lychee and lilies of the valley, the last sweet blooms of spring. His afternoons beside the old
maple taught Yoshio to distinguish subtleties that others took for granted. He heard voices in the wind and saw tints of color in his darkness. As the day progressed, the air itself changed from fresh and sweet to heavy and tired. Even the swaying of Fumiko’s kimono had significance. Only if she were rushed, in a hurry to go and stand in food lines, would her sleeves brush along the table, the soft sweep of cloth against wood. From memory, he could almost see the harried expression on her face, the quick shake of her head. Otherwise, she always held her sleeves close to her sides and kept them silent.

What Yoshio could no longer see in people’s eyes, he now heard in their voices. Fumiko’s was a soothing balm, a cool drink of water on a hot day, a calm hush in the dark. When she spoke, he saw her face, both young and old, with the same dark brown eyes that gleamed in the sunlight so long ago at the Bon Odori. I see you, he sometimes wanted to say, if only in memory.

The voices of his grandsons were as different as their personalities. Yoshio tilted his head to listen when they sat with him in the courtyard. Hiroshi’s voice was strong and steady, black and white, his feet firmly planted on the ground. Hiroshi would get where he wanted to go, one step at a time. Kenji’s voice was softer, more tentative and dreamlike. His younger grandson never sounded quite settled; he thought too much sometimes, and lacked the confidence of his older brother. But in his work, Kenji would find his way, of that Yoshio was certain. From the tone of each voice, he could always tell whether Fumiko and his grandsons were happy or sad, disgruntled or satisfied. Even their breathing gave them away, the slight pause, the heavy silence, a quick gasp of fear, a loud exhalation of disgust. And when Hiroshi and Kenji confided in him about a problem—a wrestling match lost or won, a class Kenji was taking, or news of the American occupation—Yoshio was happy to be sitting there in his darkness, listening.

Yoshio stood and moved his chair to catch the last slanting rays of sun. Hiroshi would be coming home in a few weeks, at the beginning of June. During his last visit, Yoshio had reached up and touched his face. “Let me see you,” he said. He raised his hand to gauge his grandson’s height and smiled when he felt the manly stubble on his cheek, the muscular arms and rock-solid girth. Hiroshi inhabited a body
Yoshio no longer recognized. Then Hiroshi guided his grandfather’s hand to the slick topknot on his head.

“What do you see?” Hiroshi asked, a smile in his voice.

Yoshio was reminded of standing up in the watchtower with a young Hiroshi asking him the very same question. “I see a champion,” he answered.

During the past year, sumo competitions had been revived and matches were regularly broadcast on the radio again. Ecstatic, Yoshio tuned in religiously. The sumo tradition was one of the few surviving vestiges of old Japan that gave comfort throughout a difficult transition. Before and during the war, passion for sumo soared. Afterward, it was still held in such high regard that even the occupation forces came to know the sport, placing bets on tournaments, cheering their favorite wrestlers, especially Hiroshi, whose popularity was growing. Yoshio kept track of every step of his career. His grandson already had a reputation for quickness, for bringing an opponent down within seconds.

When he and Fumiko couldn’t go to the arena, it seemed the entire neighborhood gathered at their house, or at the bar, to listen to the match on the radio. “Hiroshi will be on soon,” or, “Did you go to see Hiroshi last time?” buzzed through the neighborhood. Yoshio heard and relished it all. This was when he felt the proudest. Sumo brought back hope. When Yoshio listened to a match, it was as if he could see again; the years that lined his face and clouded his eyes dropped away, and he was a young man once more, filled with joy and enthusiasm.

The sun on his face had shifted, filtering its warmth through the maple leaves, leaving cooler shadows in the courtyard. At last their daily life was returning to some kind of normalcy. He was alive and reasonably well. He didn’t dare tell Fumiko about the dizziness he
sometimes felt when he stood up too quickly, or the pockets of forgetfulness that seemed to come more often. She had enough to worry about.

Yoshio turned when he heard the gate whine open slowly, followed by the soft click of its closing. He could tell it was Fumiko by the lightness of her steps.

“It’s a beautiful day,” he said.

He heard her pause. “How did you know it was me?” Fumiko asked, a smile in her voice.

“Do you think just because I
can’t
see that I
don’t
see?” he asked.

Fumiko laughed. “No, I don’t think you miss a thing, old man.”

He held his hand out and felt a slice of warm sunlight fall upon it as she approached.

An unexpected summer storm blew all night, whipping rain against the side of the stable and sending sheets of water running off the roof and slapping onto the ground. Four-thirty always came too early, Hiroshi thought as he pushed himself up from his futon. He looked over at Fukuda, still asleep. His young friend seemed to become more lethargic each day, sloppy and slow during practice, barely trying. Lately, Hiroshi often saw Tanaka-oyakata simply shake his head and walk away without bothering to instruct Fukuda. To Hiroshi this was worse criticism than a barrage of angry words, for it meant that Tanaka was already letting Fukuda go.

And Daishima didn’t make it any easier with his constant ridicule. His gruff, booming voice shook the stable as he chastised Fukuda in front of the other
rikishi
. “Can’t you hear? I told you I wanted hot water!” Or, “You fool, I asked you to bring me the black
yukata
robe!” which sent Fukuda stumbling back upstairs as Daishima laughed. Hiroshi tried to anticipate all the
sekitori’s
needs before he asked. But even Hiroshi didn’t have an easy time of it. Daishima was huge, demanding, and mean-spirited. Always, the
chanko
was too salty or not salty enough, the water too hot or too cold. Even though
he had reached the upper ranks, Daishima didn’t deserve such special treatment. His coaching methods were sadistic and always carried out at the expense of someone else when Tanaka-oyakata wasn’t around. If Hiroshi learned anything from Daishima, it was this: if he ever reached the
sekitori
rank, he would never abuse his position.

Hiroshi shook Fukuda awake. His young friend stirred but turned away from him in sleep. Hiroshi winced at the sight of the red welts across Fukuda’s shoulders and back, received at the end of yesterday’s practice. Daishima had called Fukuda up to take part in the
butsukari-geiko
, an exercise in which one wrestler charged another, attempting to push him out of the
dohyo
. The defender, Akori, tried to hold Fukuda back or throw him down. As the two young wrestlers repeatedly slammed into each other, Daishima watched, slapping a bamboo stick against the palm of his hand, his raspy voice continually demanding, “Again!” until both wrestlers were so exhausted, Fukuda could no longer stand.

“Get up!” Daishima yelled. “Get up, you fool! How will you ever become
sumotori
if you can’t stand on your feet?”

Fukuda lay on his side, breathing heavily.

“I said, get up!” Daishima slapped the bamboo stick against the ground next to Fukuda, and then kicked him in the thigh. “Get up, or I’ll beat you up!” he screamed.

Hiroshi watched, the blood rising to his head. It wasn’t his place to say or do anything. Daishima’s rank rendered him voiceless.
Get up. Get up
, he thought, willing Fukuda to rise from the
dohyo
.

The bamboo stick came crashing down on Fukuda’s shoulders and back, one hard thwack after another, until Daishima was winded, while Fukuda lay on the
dohyo
receiving each blow without a sound.

Despite the consequences, Hiroshi stepped forward and grabbed Daishima’s arm just as the bamboo stick was poised to strike Fukuda again.

“What?” Daishima turned and jerked away from Hiroshi’s grip.
“You son of a bitch!” he roared, raising the bamboo stick toward Hiroshi.

“Stop it at once!” Tanaka-oyakata’s voice cut through the air. The
rikishi
stepped back as Tanaka grabbed Daishima’s hand and pushed him away. “Explain yourself!”

Daishima panted. “I had to teach this fool a lesson. A wrestler must always rise up and fight!”

Tanaka-oyakata stepped close to Daishima and hissed, “I want you to leave! Now!”

Daishima threw down the bamboo stick and pushed his way out of the crowd, while Tanaka motioned for Hiroshi to help Fukuda. Already, angry red ridges were rising across his back.

Hiroshi shook Fukuda harder. “Wake up,” he whispered, trying not to disturb the other wrestlers.

“I’m not getting up,” Fukuda mumbled.

Only then did Hiroshi realize he was pretending to be asleep. “Please hurry,” he urged.

Fukuda turned toward Hiroshi and opened his eyes. “I’m finished. I’m leaving the stable,” he said. “This isn’t the place for me.” He sighed as he said the words, as if he were suddenly freed of some great restraint.

Hiroshi forced a laugh. “What are you saying? You love sumo.”

Fukuda grimaced in pain as he raised himself onto his elbows. His large stomach rose and fell under the covers. “I’m no good at this, Hiroshi-san. What’s the point in staying any longer?”