The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (59 page)

When classes convened after the New Year, Haru moved to a small apartment near Deer Park, not far from the university. She did her own research early in the mornings before teaching; then there were classes to prepare for and papers to correct when she returned home exhausted in the evening. On weekends, there was the new apartment to settle into. Slowly, she was finding her way again.

On a cold, snowy morning in early February, Haru rushed to her office and looked down to see a note slipped under the door. She was late again; her decision to walk that morning had been unwise. She
had a class to teach in five minutes but stooped to pick up the thin sheet of paper. “Your sister’s baby has arrived. Please call.” The baby was a week early. Haru had hoped to be there before Aki delivered. A flood of emotions rushed through her; a tender new life, a child to hold in her arms, and the fear of not being able to let it go. She could only hope the thoughts of her own unborn baby would lessen now that one child had made it safely into the world. There was no time to call just then as she rushed off to teach her botany class. Haru returned to her office to call during her class break. She phoned the house first, waited a long while for the connection, only to have Tamiko-san tell her that the baby had arrived just after midnight and Aki was in the hospital. “It’s a boy,” she said, her voice rising with the joy of it. Haru thought of how proud her father must be to finally have a boy in the family. Tamiko-san added that Yokozuna Takanoyama had instructed that if she were to call, to ask that she come to Tokyo as soon as she possibly could. All afternoon, Haru was unable to reach Hiroshi or her father, leaving messages for both.

On the evening train to Tokyo, Haru felt the heaviness of guilt resting on her shoulders. Aki had written her three letters in the past month and she hadn’t responded to any. The miscarriage had left Haru feeling distant from everything and everyone. Even Aki felt too far away. Every day she could barely get through her classes. But her excuses stung now, like the flames had against her palms. Haru knew her sister better than anyone. Aki was lonely and frightened and needed her words of encouragement.

The train rumbled on. She looked down at the thickened skin on the palms of her hands and wondered what she would find if she peeled away each layer. All the nerve endings hadn’t been destroyed, because little by little she felt a tingling in the tips of her fingers and on the pads of her palms. She rubbed her hands together and blew warmth back into them.

Haru turned at the sound of snow whipping against the window, tiny particles of ice clinging to the glass as the train swept through
the moonless night. She hoped that her new nephew would live his life with the same tenacity. Haru wasn’t sure how she’d react at seeing him. Would the sight of him be a constant reminder of what she had lost, even if he was the only ray of light in an otherwise horrific winter? She caught her own depthless reflection in the pitch-black window, a slim, unsmiling face that had spent far too much time in classrooms. Haru closed her eyes and saw beyond the window’s darkness, to the mountains and trees, the flickering houses with people inside, entire lives being lived on the other side. For the first time in months, she felt more like herself again.

He was named Takashi, which meant “eminence.” Hiroshi chose it on the baby’s seventh day of life at his naming celebration, called the
Oshichiya
. Takashi was dressed in white with a name plaque hanging on the wall above him, his name inscribed in beautifully written calligraphy. Hiroshi thought it important for his son to enter the world with a name that already predicted his future. He imagined great things for his son. When he was awake, Takashi’s bright eyes seemed to follow all the movement around him. “He doesn’t miss a thing,” his
obaachan
said. “He reminds me of your
ojiichan.”
Hiroshi knew it was the highest compliment she could give.

Even if he had come into the world early, Takashi was long limbed and good-sized. When he was placed in Aki’s arms for the first time at the hospital, she looked like a frightened child. Hiroshi watched her relax the longer she held the baby and felt the small rhythms of his body adjust to hers. He saw Aki smile, enchanted with the child in her arms. Hiroshi knew at that moment that nothing could possibly bring him greater joy.

At the naming ceremony, his
obaachan
and Tanaka-oyakata talked over each other in excitement. Kenji and Mika were delighted with their new nephew, taking turns to carry him, while Haru appeared pale and tired, but stayed to enjoy the ceremony; she would return to Nara the following day. The first time she held Takashi, he saw a
moment of sadness in her eyes before she smiled and kissed him tenderly on the forehead. Hiroshi was grateful she could stay with them. Haru’s calm presence anchored Aki, gave her weight and security so she wouldn’t fly away. It troubled him that even after two years of marriage, it was something he couldn’t give her. He was partly to blame, away so much of the time at tournaments and sponsor events. Aki grew increasingly morose each time he left the house. But what was he to do? It was both an honor and the duty of being a grand champion. Now, with the new baby in her arms, he saw the light return in Aki’s eyes each time she looked at Takashi. It brought Hiroshi an overwhelming joy to see how his son was already living up to his name.

Aki stood by the window and held Takashi in her arms. It was cold and she wrapped him tightly in a silk quilt. She found herself checking on him two or three times a night, even when he didn’t cry, still surprised that he was now a part of her life. She tried to remember all the folktales her mother had told her when she was young, tales like “The Two Frogs” and “The Little Peachling,” which she would soon be telling Takashi. As the pale light of the moon touched his face, she thought of how beautiful he looked asleep even if she knew it might conjure up bad omens to think such things. She quickly whispered aloud to the gods. “But look, look, his eyes are too small and his nose is just a bit too flat.” She glanced down at Takashi, nestled in her arms, and felt content for the first time in her life.

Aki was nine years old when she lost her mother to the firestorm. Growing up, Haru had stepped in to fill the void of her mother’s absence until she left for college, after which a growing disquiet began to fill Aki’s days. She took refuge in the contents of her mother’s trunk, as if some small part of her had returned. Her subsequent marriage to Hiroshi had brought her some calm, but not long after, he was away much of the time at tournaments or at dinners with sponsors held by the Sumo Association. She couldn’t go out without
the reporters and photographers that hovered around their house, frightening her. The birth of Takashi had saved Aki. What she felt for him had taken on a physical sensation, one that provided nourishment and courage. She held Takashi close and whispered, “I’ll never leave you.”

It was May and the alleyways outside the mask shop were filled with people enjoying the warm sunshine. Yanaka was once again the vibrant place of Kenji’s childhood. He picked up a block of cypress wood and watched it slowly take shape as he guided it through the saw. In the straight, clean lines, he began to see the shape of the truck he envisioned. Afterward, he would sand it down and paint it a bright blue and green with red wheels. In a couple of years, he imagined his nephew, Takashi, pushing the truck around in the shop on his hands and knees, atop tables and up and down stairs, its wheels rattling across every surface. Kenji smiled at the thought, wishing at the same time he were making the truck for his own son.

Kenji looked up to see Akira Yoshiwara standing in the doorway watching him. His sensei’s movements were still as quick and quiet as always, though his hair and beard were almost all gray, and as he squinted against the morning sun he appeared older than his fifty years.

“It’s quite a nice piece you’re making there.” Yoshiwara smiled. “Are you thinking of expanding our business?”

Kenji laughed. “I think we’d do quite well making toys. This will be the first of many for my nephew, Takashi, when he’s old enough to play with them.”

“Not to mention the toys you’ll be making for your own children,” his sensei added.

Kenji nodded. There was always that hope. His respect and friendship for his sensei had continued to grow over the years. “Yoshiwara-sensei, have you ever thought of having children of your own?”

Yoshiwara laughed. “Who would want an old, one-handed mask maker who can barely take care of himself?”

In all the years Kenji had known his sensei, he’d never seen him interested in a woman. He never appeared interested in anything but the masks. But since his return to Yanaka, Kenji had seen a softer, gentler side of his sensei that made him feel strangely sad for him. “I imagine there’s a whole world out there who would be fascinated with Akira Yoshiwara.”

“You always had a vivid imagination, Kenji-san,” his sensei said, shaking his head. “I’ll leave you to your dreams and get back to work.”

Kenji watched Yoshiwara disappear into the front room. He picked up the wooden truck and quickly made the last cut. He wondered what Mika would think of his toy making. He blew away the sawdust clinging to the wood and ran his fingers across the smooth cut before he placed it safely on the top shelf. It would be ready for painting by the week’s end.

Four months after Takashi’s birth, in February, Hiroshi came home late after an evening with sponsors. Aki’s futon was empty and he assumed she’d gotten up to feed Takashi. A dim light filtered through the shoji door to Takashi’s room and something pulled him toward it to check on his wife and son. He stumbled toward Takashi’s room, where he heard a faint, low humming and smiled to think Aki was singing their son back to sleep. The floorboards creaked under the weight of his steps, and when he slid the door open, the singing stopped. “Aki-chan,” he whispered, but she didn’t answer. Perhaps she was afraid to wake Takashi, or angry with him for staying out late yet again. He reeked of stale smoke and liquor, which filled the small, warm room. Hiroshi stepped closer to where she sat in the chair by the window and heard a low moan come from her. “Aki, what is it?” he asked, his own heart suspecting now that something was terribly wrong. He turned up the electric lantern and saw her sitting with the baby in her arms, slowly rocking back and forth. He
leaned over and stroked her warm cheek then lowered his hand to his sleeping son. Only when he touched Takashi’s cold, lifeless body under the quilt did he know his son was already dead.

The night after Takashi died was the first time Aki had seen Hiroshi cry. In the darkness of their bedroom, they lay side by side on their futons, neither of them sleeping. The muffled, throaty sounds came gradually so that she didn’t quite realize he was crying until it was clear and unmistakable. Aki hoped it might strike some deep reservoir in her so that she could cry, too. But as she lay listening to his weeping grow louder, she only felt grief like a seed growing inside of her, stealing away all her tears. It was as if everything else inside of her had dried up. Aki tried to say something to comfort him, to at least turn over and embrace him, but she didn’t want to embarrass him. So she lay still, as a coldness spread through her body like a thin layer of ice across Lake Biwa, fragile and precarious.

The first week after Takashi’s death was like a swarm of voices and faces, some Aki recognized and some she didn’t. Haru had returned from Nara for the Shinto ceremony. She remembered the sharp smell of incense, the soft chanting of mantras, the ringing of the altar bell, holding Haru’s hand at the temple and refusing to let go. Her sister had led her out of the firestorm; she could lead her out of this death storm, too.

Reporters and fans descended on the great Yokozuna Takanoyama’s house, the death of his son a tragedy that made the headlines. All the doctors could tell them was that Takashi had simply stopped breathing during the night. There were no other signs of illness, no fevers or rashes, no excessive crying or marks on his body that would suggest anything else. It happened to some babies without explanation. Aki had promised Takashi she wouldn’t leave him, and so he was taken from her. All Aki could think was, what kind of demon would steal the breath from a baby? And how was she supposed to accept that her son died for absolutely no reason at all?