The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (66 page)

“Hai!”
Haru clapped her hands. Happiness.

A small pinprick of envy pinched Aki in the arm. It should be her down in the garden, holding out her arms to catch the weight of her daughter, pulling her close. But Takara was happy and healthy this way. And she couldn’t trust herself yet. Something could still happen to Takara. Just like Takashi, who died in his sleep, sleep death, death. Aki looked away, knowing that it was also Haru’s just reward to have Takara. She’d given up everything she’d worked for in Nara to stay in Tokyo and care for them.

Sometimes, Aki fell asleep on the tatami mats trying to fool the shadows. Occasionally, she would dream of walking through a tall, wooden gate to a small house surrounded by light. She raised her hand against the glare and stepped into the beautiful garden filled with maples and willows, azaleas, Japanese quince, and irises that
stood straight up in shades of blue-purple, reaching for the sunlight, the moonlight. She walked through the thick, fragrant garden, surrounded by sounds, the rustling in the grass, the hum of life buzzing around her legs, and up the stairs to the veranda where she waited for Hiroshi and Takara, knowing they were coming, filled with happiness, bursting with it.

Haru put little Takara down for her nap, stroked her cheek, and waited until she fell asleep. She was still surprised at how easily she had adapted to caring for her. Like the plants she studied, Takara grew toward the light, while Aki retreated from it. Haru knelt by the futon and watched her niece as her breathing grew measured and calm and she drifted off to sleep. She imagined the child her own.

During these quiet moments of the day, Haru worried about Aki, whose bouts of silence and depression lasted longer with each episode. The doctors couldn’t seem to help and Aki refused to leave the house. Lately, Haru had another worry; she’d heard rumors that a young geisha had captured the interest of Yokozuna Takanoyama. Was Hiroshi so foolish as to think the press wouldn’t hear about it? When she finally couldn’t stand it any longer, Haru confronted Hiroshi as he was walking out of Takara’s room.

“Are they true?” she asked. The words came out more abrupt and accusing than she intended.

“Is what true?” he asked back, walking slowly down the hall, Haru keeping pace.

“The rumors.”

He seemed to puff up and grow bigger before her eyes. Haru imagined it was something similar to when he entered the ring, ready for a fight. “What rumors? I can hardly keep up with them.” He forced a laugh.

“The geisha, Meiko.” Haru watched his face, saw his lips purse in thought. She knew it was true from the pause.

“You know how things are bent out of proportion. The press will pick up on anything to sell a paper or magazine.”

Haru stopped walking. “So, there has been something for them to pick up on?”

Hiroshi turned. “And now it’s you, Haru-san, who are twisting my words around. I’m in your debt for all you’ve done for Aki and Takara, but my business isn’t yours.”

Haru held back her anger and tried to remain calm. “My concern is for Aki-chan and that these rumors don’t reach her. I would hope that’s where your concern lies, too.” She stood for a moment, holding his gaze, before she turned and walked back down the hall, quietly slid open the door, and disappeared into Takara’s room.

She hadn’t seen Hiroshi since.

Haru paced from the sleeping child and back to the window. It was already October and becoming cold. She stared down at the immaculate garden below—ablaze with the last colors of fall, the red maple leaves, the round-faced cosmos she had planted, and the crimson veils of grassworts that surrounded the pond. She especially admired the
sakura
and maple trees that lined the winding paths and led to the large old pine and bridge-covered pond. Hiroshi had had it beautifully landscaped, each detail thought out so that she and Takara could spend hours in this small park of their own. How easy it was for her to make plants grow, and yet …

At twenty-eight, Haru looked down at the blooming garden that didn’t belong to her and at the sleeping child across the room, who didn’t belong to her, either. She felt a burning emptiness in her stomach where her own child once had been. But the decision to stay in Tokyo with Aki and Takara had been hers alone. And much to her surprise, she only occasionally missed her life in Nara, her days filled with students and research, wandering down the dank paths of Deer Park, correcting papers late into the night.

But each afternoon, standing by the window of the silent and lovely house, and taking care of a child she adored, Haru still felt
adrift. Her life was neither here nor in Nara. She was like a buoy in the middle of the sea. Much like the ferry going to Oshima, there was only the sky above and the sea below, with no land in sight.

Hiroshi swiveled from side to side in the chair and stared into the large mirror that filled the wall in front of him. The image gazing back was a thirty-five-year-old sumo grand champion, wearing a blue cotton
yukata
over his
mawashi
belt. He suddenly felt self-conscious, enormous in the chair and in the small, sterile room where he waited to shoot a commercial at the television studio. His left knee felt stiff from sitting too long. In the past year, it had become an increasing problem. Earlier, a young makeup man had dabbed makeup on a sponge and patted it across his shoulders, his stomach, his forehead and nose, the parts of his body that might shine on camera, he said. When Hiroshi looked in the mirror again, he expected to look changed. Instead, he looked the same but felt somehow diminished.

The makeup man left Hiroshi to practice his one line, while he waited for his cue. “Mitsuki Tire Company makes tires that last!” He read the entire script again and committed it all to memory. He was to pick up a tire in each hand and raise them both in the air, holding each up until he gradually appeared to weaken, his arms slowly lowering with the weight of the tires. Across the screen the audience would see the characters “Hours later …” and by then his arms would tremble with exhaustion, while he fought to hold up the tires. On the director’s command, Hiroshi was to collapse to the floor, while the camera pulled back and the audience saw the tires rolling down a busy street followed by the voice-over, “Mitsuki Tires, the real grand champion of tires!”

Hiroshi squirmed in his chair. It was no better or worse than other commercials he’d done. His strong, chiseled features graced a thousand billboards selling everything from soft drinks and tires to candy and laundry detergent. “All Around Detergent can handle a sumo-sized load,” a slim and beautiful Japanese woman exclaimed, holding
up one of his oversized
yukata
kimonos. Since the advent of television, promoting products had taken on a new dimension. Not only was he a sumo grand champion but also a celebrity, better known than many movie stars. He couldn’t walk down the street without being mobbed by fans. For the most part, the ads and television spots were silly and childish, but they paid him handsomely and he knew his wrestling career was fleeting. He already anticipated the time when his fans would no longer stop him on the street to ask for his autograph. Hiroshi’s retirement from the
dohyo
seemed to inch closer each year and he thought of the old saying “Even a snail will eventually reach its destination.” Other
rikishi
who retired in their mid- to late thirties went on to careers as stable masters, or businessmen, many opening their own restaurants. Hiroshi recalled Fukuda’s success with his noodle shops. But he couldn’t see himself doing any of those things. He had his chance now to make his family and future comfortable while he could, and he wasn’t about to waste the opportunities given him.

Little Takara was almost two years old. Just thinking of her made him smile. The fear that something might happen to her was a small stone that rubbed against his foot. On the nights when he was home, he watched her sleep and memorized any new changes that might have occurred during the days or weeks he was away. He saw her tiny fingers open and close in sleep as if she were trying to grab on to something. He heard again the steady rhythm of her breathing and the soft whistling sound that let him know she was asleep. She was already a beauty, resembling Aki. Yet, even though he knew Aki and Takara were thriving under Haru’s care, he still worried that something might happen to them. He cleared his throat and pushed the bad omens out of his mind, just as he did in the
dohyo
, using all his strength and cunning to defeat his opponent.

His thoughts returned to the angry words he’d had with Haru a few months earlier. Was it still bothering him? How dare she question him? He hadn’t felt right ever since, angry and ashamed. He’d
avoided both Haru and the Sakura teahouse. He glanced up at the mirror again. He’d done one thing right in the past month, using his influence to secure Haru a teaching job at Tokyo University in the spring. It was the least he could do for her after she’d given up so much.

There was a sudden knock at the door and he turned to see a young woman peek in and bow. “Yokozuna Takanoyama, they’re ready for you now.”

He nodded, pushed himself up from the chair, and followed her out.

By the end of the summer of 1963, Akira and Kenji were busily preparing for the fall schedule of the Noh theater. Otomo Matsui was staging his last season before he officially retired, and they were commissioned to make all the masks. September would begin with his revival of
Aya no Tsuzumi
, or
The Damask Drum
. It was a story that Akira especially loved, about an old gardener who catches sight of a princess taking a walk around the laurel pond at the Palace of Kinomaru and falls immediately in love with her. When she hears of his love, she sends him a message to beat the drum that hangs on the laurel tree by the pond. When the sound of the beating drum reaches the palace, he will see her face again. The old gardener beats the drum to no avail, as no sound emerges. Finally, in great despair, he drowns himself in the pond, only to return as a ghost to torment the princess and discover the truth of the drum.