The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (48 page)

By the beginning of June, a few weeks after his operation, Hiroshi began to exercise outside in the courtyard, walking in slow circles with the help of the brace and a cane. It was a warm afternoon when he looked up to see Haru standing by the front gate.

“Hiroshi-san won’t be winning any races at that speed.” She smiled.

“I’m afraid even a snail could beat me now,” he said.

She laughed. “Only for the time being.”

“Haru-san, are you home for long?”

“Just for a few weeks,” she answered. “Then I’m returning to Nara to do some research.”

Hiroshi smiled. “Ah, the scientist.”

“Hai.”
Haru blushed. At nineteen, she was a lovely young woman, dressed in a blue and green lightweight summer kimono. It was evident the years away had given her more self-assurance.

“I hope everything is well in Nara,” he said.

“Everything is very well, thank you. I’m enjoying it there.” Haru paused then added, “I was sorry to hear about your injury. It must be very difficult.”

Hiroshi tapped his cane against the flagstones, green veins of moss between them, as he walked in the courtyard. He thought of his
ojiichan
. How quickly he’d acquired an old man’s habit of tapping. “It is. I’m afraid I’m not very good at remaining immobile.”

She pulled at the collar of her kimono. “My father says your knee will gain strength in time, but you’ll have to be patient,” said Haru, watching him closely.

“Also something I’m not very good at.”

Haru paused for a moment. “Perhaps things happen to help us learn about ourselves.”

Hiroshi smiled. Haru had always seemed so much older than her age—even when she was a young girl—taking the place of her mother as
okamisan
at the stable.
“Hai
, perhaps,” he answered.

“I believe you’ll beat that snail in no time,” she quickly added.

“In another month or two.” He laughed. The sun had shifted and was shining directly down on them now. He saw a thin film of sweat form on her forehead. “I’ve heard there’s a large park in Nara.”

“It’s a very beautiful place,” Haru said.

“Perhaps you can show it to me one day.”

She nodded and smiled. “I think you’d like it there.”

Hiroshi tapped his cane against the flagstones again. “It’s hot out here, Haru-san. I shouldn’t keep you any longer.”

She bowed. “I’m sure I’ll see you again before I leave.”

Hiroshi bowed back. He watched her walk quickly to the house, disappearing into the cool darkness, even as the echo of her voice still lingered.

Hiroshi saw Haru once or twice afterward, but only in passing. And then she was gone again. By mid-June, the brace was off. Every afternoon, he went for longer and longer walks to strengthen his knee. He moved unhurriedly down the crowded Tokyo streets and saw the distinct colors of the world around him; the sun-washed green of the leaves, the sharp reds and yellows of the kimonos, and the dull whites of the sleeping neon lights. Hiroshi reflected on the realities he’d have to accept; if he couldn’t fight until the March Basho, he would likely be demoted to the
komusubi
rank, and if his knee never
were to heal properly, he would have to do the honorable thing and retire from the sport he’d loved since he was a boy.

From her window, Aki watched Hiroshi walk slowly around the courtyard in circles. It reminded her of some childhood game she and Haru had once played. She’d been watching him every day for weeks, ever since his knee injury when he first hobbled out to the courtyard, leaning heavily on a dark wooden cane. Each day he appeared to move with greater ease, and she was careful never to let him see her watching. It was another one of her small secrets, like the treasures in her mother’s red lacquer trunk that she held so close.

Until Aki saw Hiroshi’s slow, struggling steps, she had never believed anything could defeat him. He always seemed so tall and strong to her. Everyone else paled in comparison. For the first time, she considered what it meant to be a
sumotori
and how desolate it must feel to be injured and unable to compete. She wondered if Hiroshi had ever thought about his life beyond sumo. They had lived across the courtyard from each other for so many years and she didn’t know a thing about him.

Aki was tempted to climb out of her window again, slide down the support beam, and land squarely before him, but she knew he would think her still a child, not the seventeen-year-old young woman she’d become. Before Haru left again for Nara, Aki had seen her talking to Hiroshi in the courtyard. He spoke to her sister the way she hoped he would one day speak to her, gentle words filled with interest and admiration. Haru commanded more attention than she realized just by the way she listened to people. If she weren’t her sister, Aki might have been jealous. Instead, she wished for her calm.

Aki leaned farther out the window, the branches of the
sakura
tree blocking her view. She knew Hiroshi would soon be within sight as he circled around the courtyard again, his cane clicking dully against the flagstones. Then, as if keeping pace with her thoughts, his imposing figure slowly rounded the corner. Aki’s heart jumped when she
thought he might glance up and see her, but he limped by, his concentration on each careful step. Only after Hiroshi was out of sight again did Aki step away from the window and pick up the photo on her desk of her mother as a young
maiko
. Without thinking, she found herself moving in the same circular pattern as Hiroshi around her room.

When Hiroshi was a boy, the longer and warmer days seemed to strengthen his mind and body, enter his blood and muscles. It felt as if the air were animated and came alive. There were actually moments when he could feel his limbs growing, a dull ache in his knees and elbows. It triggered memories of wrestling in the park, of running down the alleyways playing hide-and-seek, the sweaty, dank, sour smell of the boys, the
ting, ting, ting
of the metalsmith, and of eating his
obaachan’s
red bean rice cakes with Kenji until his stomach hurt. Now, the ache in his knee was due to the healing process, but the advent of summer still had the same physical effect on him, the need to be in motion.

Hiroshi limped slowly down the alleyways of Yanaka. It was his first time back since the operation on his knee six weeks ago and he wanted to surprise Kenji and his grandparents. He was wearing a black silk kimono, his hair still styled in a fancy
oichomage
. It was warmer than he expected and he felt large and conspicuous walking down the narrow lane. Men and women stopped and bowed to him. Children wanted to touch his kimono for good luck. The reserve and propriety of his countrymen seemed to fall away when it came to sumo. It still surprised him when people shouted out his wrestling name during matches and in the streets: “Takanoyama! Takanoyama!” Hiroshi thought back to when he and his
ojiichan
used to listen to the radio, yelling and cheering when their favorite wrestler won a match. He felt proudest of his country then. Now, it was startling to hear his own fighting name called out with the same pride and enthusiasm.

Hiroshi turned the corner and entered Kenji’s mask shop. It was small and crowded and he always felt too big and clumsy in the fragile space. Masks were lined up on the shelves like faces watching him. It sent a quick shiver down his back. He once asked Kenji if all the staring masks didn’t spook him, like
obake
, conjuring up the childhood ghost stories his
obaachan
had told them. But his brother smiled and said they were like old friends. Hiroshi reached up and took down a demon mask, painted bright red with gold horns. He fingered the details, the upturned eyebrows and grooved cheekbones. Kenji’s work was flawless, every detail accounted for. He raised the mask to his face and the world narrowed to the two eyeholes, confined and manageable. Hiroshi stepped back and bumped into a table, grunting in irritation, guarding his knee. He had offered many times to finance a larger shop for his brother, with a bigger workshop and a decent showroom, but Kenji always smiled and politely declined. “I like my back against the wall. It gives me a sense of security.” Perhaps he felt the same about his masks.

“I thought I heard someone.” Kenji entered from the back room, holding a block of wood in his hands. “How did you get here?”

“My driver let me off a few blocks from here. The doctors want me to exercise.”

Kenji nodded. “It’s good to see you.”

Hiroshi bowed and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. He was a few inches taller and at least a hundred pounds heavier. At twenty-three, Kenji had put on a little weight, which suited his too slender frame. He had his hair tied back, the sparse growth of a mustache on his upper lip.

“Is it true?” Hiroshi asked.

Kenji laughed. He appeared so much lighter than when he was young, so much happier. “You’ve spoken to
obaachan
?”

Hiroshi nodded. “When will I meet your Mika-san?” he asked.

Kenji smiled. Happiness. Hiroshi was glad that his brother had found joy, something that seemed to elude him during their childhood.

“Right now,” he said. “Mika, my brother, Hiroshi, is here!” he called out, and then in a softer voice, he added, “She came to return a book I lent her.”

Hiroshi put the demon mask back on the shelf. He turned around and there she was—the young woman who had captured his brother’s heart—clutching a book in her hands. She was slim and pretty, dressed in Western clothing, a modern young woman, quick and confident, as his
obaachan
had told him. Her dark eyes were searching and inquisitive—observing his size, the silk kimono, his
chonmage
, where her eyes lingered a moment longer on his ginkgo-leaf topknot. She bowed low, and then moved closer and extended her hand. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Hiroshi-san. It’s a great honor to finally meet you.”

Hiroshi bowed and took hold of her hand, which seemed so small and delicate in his. “It’s nice to meet you, Mika-san. There’s a rumor you’ve made my brother very happy.”

Mika blushed and bowed her head again. “Your brother has brought me much happiness,” she said, glancing at Kenji.

For a moment, she sounded formal and old-fashioned. When she put the book down on the table, he saw that it was Kenji’s beloved
Book of Masks
.