The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (44 page)

As much as Sadao wanted to forget his years on the street, old fears returned to haunt him. What if Sekitori Takanoyama told Tanaka-oyakata how old he was? Would he have to leave the stable? On the streets, stealing had been as natural as breathing for Sadao. The wrestlers at the stable had so much, and he knew they wouldn’t miss a small item or two, untraceable things that could be misplaced. It would be his insurance, just in case he found himself out in the cold again.

While Sekitori Takanoyama soaked in the
ofuro
, Sadao sneaked back into his room to rifle through the green lacquered trunk with Takanoyama’s name hand painted in red along the border. Surely, there must be something of worth in it, something small he could hold on to and sell if he needed to. He quietly lifted the top and rummaged through the trunk to find a
yukata
robe, a pair of
setta
tatami slippers, towels, a tatami mat, his cushion, a
mawashi
belt, his expensive silk ceremonial apron, and a few personal items. There was also a photograph of a young couple, another of an older couple, and his book of poetry. Sadao stroked the gold trim along the apron, his fingers following the pattern of the white crane on the front. It would
bring a fair amount of money on the streets. He shook the thought away. As he carefully put down the lid, something else caught his eye. He reached down and picked up a silver hairpin, which he held for a moment before slipping it into his pocket. He doubted Takanoyama would miss it anyway; it was probably given to him by some geisha at one the teahouses he frequented.

Sadao knew stealing from Takanoyama-sama was wrong, but he couldn’t stop himself, especially now that the
sekitori
knew the truth about his age. He closed the lid quietly and hurried back to the soaking room.

After a long, hot soak, Hiroshi waited for Tokohashi to arrive. As an upper-ranked wrestler, he now wore his hair in a more elaborate
oichomage
, a topknot that resembled a ginkgo leaf, to all the major tournaments and on special occasions. The fan-shaped ginkgo leaf came from a species of tree that was more than a thousand years old. While Hiroshi’s wrestling name, Noble Mountain, gave him a sense of dignity, his
oichomage
gave him history.

Tokohashi was one of only a handful of hairdressers who had trained for ten years to execute a perfect
oichomage
, styled with numerous combs and picks. Hiroshi looked up when the door slid open, happy to see the diminutive, good-natured Tokohashi enter. At sixty, the hairdresser was five years from retirement, and Hiroshi hoped to make grand champion before then so that Tokohashi would be the one to dress his hair. Over the years, the hairdresser had become just as trusted in his life and career as Tanaka-oyakata was. While Tanaka honed the fighting skills of each wrestler, Tokohashi spent hours getting to know his character.

“Hiroshi, if you think the women were crazy about you before, they won’t be able to resist you with an
oichomage,”
Tokohashi teased, just as he had five years ago when he first styled his
chomage
.

“I should be married within the week,” Hiroshi quipped.

Tokohashi carefully laid out his combs and
bintsuke
wax. When
he opened the tin of wax, the sweet, flowery scent filled the air. “Now that you’re
sekitori
, it might not be a bad idea; a strong young man should have more than one way to expend his energy.”

Hiroshi felt the heat rise to his face and was happy Tokohashi stood behind him working. “In good time,” he answered, keeping his voice light and noncommittal.

His rise in rank to
sekitori
did free him to marry, a thought that had flickered through his mind in the past few weeks. Until now, he’d lived a life of endless routine, one filled with rigorous training and continuous responsibilities. Just to lie down and sleep at the end of the day was comfort enough. Now Hiroshi saw an entirely different world opening up to him. He sat with this knowledge and tried to imagine the touch of a woman’s soft skin beneath his fingers. He thought of the geisha Momiko, how her skin must feel like a flower’s petal, smooth and cool, silky and fragrant.

It was the noise that bothered Akira Yoshiwara most since he’d returned to Tokyo five months ago. When he first stepped down from the train at the Shinjuku Station in Tokyo, it took all his willpower to keep from getting back on the next train to Oyama. The noise was like a wild wind pushing him back, a nervous, frantic chorus filled with shrieks and cries that shook through his body. He missed the silence of Aio, the quiet whistle of the wind sweeping through the trees, the quick snap of a branch breaking, or the trickling water that ran down the river. Emiko had once pointed out to him that it was simply nature whispering secrets to them. Akira pushed his thoughts of her and Kiyo out of his mind.

The noise was unbearable, but so was the crush of the crowds that surged toward him as he gripped his bag tighter and walked toward the nearest exit. And what then? Akira no longer had any place to go. After almost seven years away, Tokyo was now a stranger. Or perhaps he was the stranger. He sidestepped the bodies rushing to get to their trains when someone knocked hard against his left shoulder. He
looked directly into the face of a beggar standing in front of him, reeking, still wearing the tattered jacket of an army uniform, his hair and beard long and matted.
“Dozo,”
he said, holding out his filthy hand for money.

Instinctively, Akira raised his left arm as if to wave the man away. His arm was suspended in the air between them and his sleeve fell back to expose the angry scar where his hand once was. The beggar stepped back and mumbled, “Ah, my brother, you’ve already given enough because of the war.” Then he quickly turned away from Akira.

Outside the train station, it was like another world. People were scattered everywhere but it was quieter. He squinted against the sunlight, then kept his head down and didn’t dare look the patrolling American soldiers in the face. Akira walked for hours that first day, trying to acclimate himself to this new, brash Tokyo. The streets he once knew had vanished, along with the buildings that stood among them. Empty lots were everywhere. In some parts of the city, he saw the skeletal frames of new buildings going up. As darkness fell and the air grew cool, Akira found a small hotel on the outskirts of the downtown area where he could stay while he learned to navigate this suddenly alien city all over again.

It was weeks before Akira finally took a train back to Yanaka, walking from the station through the downtown area. He didn’t want to face the devastation, the remnants of his past. But unlike downtown Tokyo, Yanaka remained remarkably untouched; many of the alleyways were exactly the same as when he left, new shops peppered among the old. There were fewer American soldiers patrolling the Yanaka area. Akira relaxed and followed the familiar route he had walked every day for fifteen years. It wasn’t until he turned the corner just before his old mask shop that he felt suddenly nervous again, his heart racing. Part of Akira still hoped the shop stood empty,
waiting for him to return and pick up the pieces of his former life. But just across the narrow alleyway was his shop, now filled with blooming flowers in the window. He thought of Kenji and wondered if he’d ever stood in the very same spot, contemplating what had happened to him. Akira cleared his throat and smiled. Life had gone on in Yanaka without him or his masks.

More than a year after Haru left for Nara, Aki still felt empty and lethargic. It wasn’t just because her sister was away at school; it was the growing realization that people would always be leaving her, first her mother, and now Haru. One day, her father would die and leave her, too. If Aki thought too much about it, she’d fall into a deep, dark cavern she couldn’t climb out of. So she pushed the bleak thoughts out of her mind and tried to concentrate on other things. Seiko-san came to mind. She was certainly someone Aki wished would leave her life, but every day she returned to torment her.

Of all the housekeepers her father had hired, Aki hated Seiko-san the most. Not only did she wear the same dark green kimono every day, she kept a vigilant eye over her, kneeling outside her room after school, rapping on her shoji door and trying to coax her to come out, reporting everything back to her father. Aki thought her old and creepy the way she hovered, her eyes always watching, telling her to do things when she had no authority. At fifteen, Aki didn’t need anyone looking after her.

Like clockwork, Seiko-san knocked three times and Aki pictured her kneeling at the other side of her door.

“Wouldn’t you like something to eat?” she asked.

“No.”

“To drink?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you come out of your room for a while? It’s not healthy to be by yourself so much.”

She remained silent.

“Perhaps later, then.”

Aki knew she was being difficult, but Seiko-san was getting more and more insistent, and her first impulse was to snap back at her. She listened until she heard Seiko-san mumble something under her breath, heard her knees creak as she stood up slowly and padded back down the hall.

Haru always knew how to handle these housekeepers, while Aki invariably became too stubborn and ran into trouble with them and their rules. Her sister had quietly obeyed them, only to escape as quickly as she could. Now she was in Nara, having gotten away, leaving Aki with a series of housekeepers who disliked her as much as she disliked them.

Aki stood up from her desk and moved quietly to the window to open it, letting in a mild April wind. Just below was the flagstone courtyard, and a plot of dirt where her father wanted to plant a cherry blossom tree. She leaned out to check if anyone was around. If she were careful, she could lower herself down onto the tile roof of the
genkan
and slide down the support beam to the courtyard. She dropped her sandals first, which clattered as they hit the pavement below. Aki turned back, hoping Seiko-san hadn’t heard. Then she lifted her kimono and swung her legs over the window ledge, lowering herself slowly onto the roof of the
genkan
, careful to make sure it could support her weight. From there, she just needed to slide down the beam to be free of Seiko-san. Carefully, she inched her way to the edge of the roof and held on as she wrapped her legs around the beam. She was halfway down when a splinter jabbed into her palm and she lost her grip, falling the last few feet onto her back, her head thumping against the patch of dirt.

There was the sound of footsteps. “Are you all right, Aki-san?” She looked up to see the towering figure of Hiroshi standing over her, dressed in a white
yukata
robe. She always remembered him as the tall one who’d found her mother’s body at the river. Now Hiroshi knelt beside her, his large shadow covering her like a blanket.

“Hai,”
Aki quickly answered as she tried to sit up, embarrassed beyond words. She felt dizzy and stayed seated on the ground.

“Shall I get your father?” Hiroshi asked.

“No,” she said. “I’ll be fine, I just need a moment.”

Hiroshi leaned closer and put his large hand on the back of her head. “Does your head hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly and felt a slight throbbing. No one had to know. She was just grateful to have hit the dirt instead of the pavement.

He extended his hand and she felt him gently pull her up. His hand felt warm and comforting and she didn’t want to let go. She bowed and brushed at her kimono. “I’m fine.
Domo arigato goziamasu.”

Hiroshi smiled. “Trying to get away?”

Aki looked down, so he wouldn’t see her smile. “Almost,” she answered.

“I won’t tell,” he said.

She bowed again.
“Domo.”

“Just be careful,” he added.

“Hai.”

“And use your legs more the next time you decide to slide down that beam. That way, if you lose your grip …”

“Hai. Domo arigato.”

They stood a moment longer before Hiroshi bowed and said, “I’d better return to the stable before your father finds me out here chatting with you. No more climbing today,” he instructed, as he turned away.