The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (40 page)

When he and Kiyo reached the top of the path, they hiked up through the sweet, scented pines to the rocks and sat on a ridge that jutted out and curved down at the end, which Kiyo had named the Bird’s Beak. From there, they looked out over the valley, down at the peaked roofs poking through the trees, thin wisps of smoke floating into the air. Then it was his turn to be silent while Kiyo told him about her day, her voice wrapping around him like a blanket.

“You’re early,” Akira said now. He was so sure it was Kiyo at the door of the barn that he didn’t stop painting.

“Sumimasen
, Akira-san. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

He looked up to see Emiko standing just inside the door. “Emiko-san,” he said, putting down the paintbrush and bowing. “Please come in.” In the almost two years he’d been living in the barn, she’d entered only a few times.

Emiko stepped forward as if pushed by the sunlight that gleamed in her hair. She stopped and bowed. Fine lines around her mouth creased in a tentative smile. “Akira-san, Kiyo-chan and I would be honored if you came to dinner this evening.”

She stood straight and rigid as her gaze darted around the barn and he wondered what she saw, his makeshift living quarters in the corner, surrounded by rusty metal tubs, shovels, and hoes, the battered table and oil lantern where he worked, the otherwise dingy light that made everything appear tired and discarded. Nazo lifted his head and lay back down again.

It was such a formal invitation, Akira asked, “Is it a special occasion?”

Emiko smiled again and shook her head. “It’s just an opportunity for us to have dinner together.”

“Hai.”
He smiled back. “I would be honored.” He saw her face lighten at his acceptance as her body wavered and relaxed.

“We’ll expect you at six, then,” Emiko said, and bowed. She turned to leave and walked back out into the sunlight, closing the door behind her.

By the time Kiyo arrived at the barn, it was too late for a hike up the mountain. Instead, Akira cleaned up before he walked up to the house. Kiyo ushered him in and they sat by the hearth and talked and laughed with Emiko as she cooked sukiyaki. They watched as the broth with carrots and turnips bubbled and sputtered when she dropped in the thin slices of chicken, cabbage, and rice noodles. Akira couldn’t remember when he had last eaten so well. Afterward, Kiyo entertained them with a poetry reading, and when he rose to leave, it was not without a trace of regret.

“Domo arigato
, Emiko-san, it was a wonderful dinner. I don’t know how to repay your kindness.”

Emiko blushed. “It’s so little, compared to all you’ve done for us.”

Akira bowed. “I’ve done little. I’m a very lucky man.”

Emiko blushed again and bowed.

In half sleep, Akira heard the barn door creak open and he sat up as footsteps, slow and hesitant, approached his cot in the corner of the barn. He reached down for his axe, heavy and solid in his hand. As the footsteps grew closer, he clutched the axe handle tighter then took a breath. “Who’s there?” he demanded. The footsteps stopped in the darkness.

“It’s me, Akira-san,” Emiko’s voice answered.

“Emiko-san? Is everything all right? Is it Kiyo-chan?” He put down the axe and struck a match. The sudden glow of his oil lamp startled them both, as their shadows jumped on walls.

“Kiyo is fine. She’s asleep. We’re fine,” she added. She stood where she stopped, wrapping her trembling arms around her dark cotton kimono. Her long hair fell over her shoulders. “I need to speak to you.”

With her hair down, she looked younger, slender and vulnerable in the wavering light. For the first time, he saw something of Kiyo in her eyes, and around her mouth. Until then, he had imagined Kiyo resembled her father, whose legacy lived in his young widow, his inquisitive daughter, this mountain house. Akira stood up and gently guided Emiko to his cot, wrapping a blanket around her before he sat beside her.

“What is so important that it can’t wait until morning?” he asked in a whisper.

“Please forgive me, but I wanted to speak about…about us.” Emiko avoided his eyes but kept talking. “I’ve been alone for a very long time …”

Akira swallowed and looked away. He always feared it might come to this. And why not? Emiko was a desirable woman who deserved a good man to take care of her and Kiyo. “Emiko,” he whispered. But she was already leaning toward him, her lips finding his. For a moment, he allowed himself to be kissed and to kiss her back, tasting a sweet softness he longed for himself. He did love her and Kiyo as much as he could, and wished it were enough. But when he felt Emiko’s hand caress the back of his neck, he pulled away from her and stood. “I can’t,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

Emiko stood, too, pulling her kimono tight. He saw pain and embarrassment flicker across her face, aging her again. She bowed and hurried toward the barn door. Akira watched her shadow hurry ahead of her and wanted to call her back but didn’t.

After attending to Daishima and acquiescing to all the higher-ranked wrestlers for five long years, Hiroshi was now one himself. Sadao, his apprentice, was one of three new
rikishi
at the stable. He appeared young and hardworking, but, unlike Fukuda, who was open and playful, Sadao remained closed and guarded. For the first time in his life Hiroshi also had a room of his own. It was small but quiet. He gazed out the window to the courtyard below, relishing the thought of no longer sleeping in the same dormitory-style room with the other
rikishi
. He would have to reacquaint himself with the idea of privacy and the luxury of sleeping in late again.

Tanaka-oyakata now maintained two
sekitori
-ranked wrestlers at the stable, though Daishima had recently slipped down one rank to
komusubi
, while Hiroshi rose to the Juryo Division. They had remained at a polite distance after Hiroshi defeated him during the practice session almost two years ago. But at thirty-three, Daishima had to entertain thoughts of retirement rather than falling out of the
sekitori
division and risking dishonor for both himself and the stable.

“Sumimasen
, Sekitori Takanoyama.” Sadao’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“Hai.”
Hiroshi turned from the window to see his young attendant standing at the doorway of his room carrying a wrapped package.

Sadao bowed low to him. “Excuse me, Sekitori Takanoyama, your bath is ready. Also, Tanaka-oyakata asked that I bring this to you.” He bowed again and put the package on top of Hiroshi’s
akeni
, the bamboo trunk in which he stored his personal belongings. On tournament days, it would be Sadao’s job to transport it to the stadium.

“Thank you, Sadao. What is it?” Hiroshi unwrapped the package and was surprised to see an ankle-length maroon
kesho-mawashi
,
the handmade silk ceremonial apron embroidered with white and gold and worn around the front of his waist to participate in the
dohyo-iri
, the ring-entering ceremony.

“Please tell Oyakata-sama that I’ve received the package.”

“Hai.”
Sadao bowed.

Hiroshi watched the boy leave the room, light and sure-footed. His fingers followed the intricate chrysanthemum pattern on the ceremonial apron. It was well made and costly, far more elaborate than any ceremonial apron he’d worn before. It was all part of the pageantry of sumo. His heart jumped to think how intricately the sport of sumo was tied to his life and his country. Despite Japan’s defeat, sumo retained its history and honor, a tradition that the Japanese people could still cherish. It was a tradition given to very few men, and one Hiroshi felt privileged to serve.

After practice the next day, Hiroshi bathed himself on the low stool, rinsing off with bucketfuls of warm water. His arms and legs were heavily muscled now, his stomach solid. He had grown in size and strength but tried to keep his weight down. He slapped the towel against his back and waited for Sadao to return and scrub it. The boy wasn’t sixteen yet, and already quick and attentive. But something about him made Hiroshi think he was younger, his thin, still-boyish face, the dark, inquisitive eyes that darted everywhere; a rare laugh still tinged with innocence. Hiroshi knew that his young attendant, like himself, was an orphan, his parents having died in the 1945 firestorm. And while Hiroshi was raised by his grandparents, he heard Sadao had grown up on the streets, where he had acquired the hard edge needed to survive. Hiroshi tried to get him to talk more. “And where did you live after the firestorm?” he asked, as the boy stood behind him and scrubbed his back. Unlike Daishima, who was either silent or belligerent, Hiroshi was curious to know more about the young attendant he would need to depend on.

Sadao paused for a long time. “I lived with friends,” he said.

Hiroshi turned around and eyed the boy closely. He had the right body for wrestling, big-boned and sturdy, but he would need to grow taller, put on more weight in the coming years, and strengthen his leg muscles. But unlike Fukuda, he trained hard and wasn’t easily distracted.

Sadao poured another bucket of warm water down his back. “Excuse me, Sekitori Takanoyama,” he said, “I need to check if the water in the
ofuro
is hot enough. I’ll return to wash your hair.”

Hiroshi nodded. For now, the boy’s story would remain untold.

Nakamura Hall at Tokyo University was filled with the families of graduating architecture and design students. The buzz of excited voices cut through the hot, still July afternoon. Kenji was seated onstage with his graduating class as he looked out among the packed audience. He wondered if Mika Abe might be in another hall on campus at the same moment, graduating with the other art students. He glanced about for his family, worried that it might be too hot for his grandparents. He’d seen them shortly after they arrived and the happiness on their faces seemed to erase all the difficulties of the past years. Standing next to them, Hiroshi looked like a warrior from the past. But when the commencement ceremony began, Kenji relaxed, knowing his brother was taking good care of them.