The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (71 page)

Hiroshi had skipped both the September and November Bashos following Aki’s death. Afterward, he began training again for the January tournament knowing it would be his last. His lack of focus, along with a waning desire to fight, had begun last year, even before Aki’s suicide. After her death, he had to transform the lethargy into something else; a way to get past the despair. Hiroshi always assumed he could make up the lost time with Aki when he retired, and now it was too late; all his unfulfilled promises had dissipated, leaving a lingering guilt. He somehow needed to put all his energy and concentration into this one last tournament before retiring.

After a morning of training, Hiroshi found Tanaka-oyakata upstairs in his office. Before, when he thought of retiring from sumo, the idea would lodge in his throat. Now he swallowed it with ease and sadness. He knocked. Tanaka looked up and motioned for him to come in. How many times had he sat in the small, crowded office across from Tanaka? His desk was buried in contracts, schedules, and a pile of
tegata
, the red ink handprints on
shikishi
white paper of his most popular wrestlers. Once they dried, each
sumotori
autographed his handprint. On top were Hiroshi’s; over the years his handprints had become as popular as those of Yokozuna Futabayama.

During the almost eight years of Hiroshi’s marriage to his daughter, Tanaka-oyakata had never changed, never showed any partiality in their working relationship. Only when they were with family did
Hiroshi see Tanaka-san the father and grandfather. A tired smile crossed his father-in-law’s lips. “Hiroshi-san, what can I do for you?”

Tanaka was much thinner and older than the man he first met in his high school gym, almost twenty years before. Hiroshi bowed. “May I speak with you for a moment?” he asked.

“Of course, of course.” Tanaka pointed to the chair opposite his desk.

Hiroshi sat down and cleared his throat. The small office was warm and airless, a welcome change from the winter winds that whistled through the practice area downstairs.

“Is everything well with Takara?”

“She’s very well, thank you. Haru-san has been wonderful with her,” Hiroshi answered.

Tanaka nodded with a smile.

“I’ve come to speak to you about something else.”

Tanaka stacked his papers, leaned back, and gave Hiroshi his full attention. “What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking that it’s time for me to retire, what with Aki’s …”

Tanaka-oyakata ran his hand over his pate in thought. “Of course,” he said.

“And Takara’s growing up so quickly.”

“Hai.”
Tanaka grunted then looked away. After a moment, he continued. “You’ve been one of the greatest
yokozuna
in the history of the sport. You’ve stayed longer than most
sumotori
. You’ve made the Katsuyama-beya very proud. You’ve made me very proud. I know Aki-chan was, too.”

When he finally looked at Hiroshi, his eyes were red-rimmed and moist. These were more words than Hiroshi had heard Tanaka-oyakata say in a long time. The room suddenly felt too small, suffocating. In that moment, the question Hiroshi had tried so hard to avoid all these months resonated through his mind. If he had retired earlier, could he have saved Aki?

He rose from the chair and bowed to Tanaka. “This will be my last tournament, then. The retirement ceremony can be held at the
hanazumo
in February.”

“Hai,”
Tanaka-oyakata said. “It should give us enough time to prepare.”

His father-in-law stood up and bowed low to Hiroshi.

It snowed on the second Sunday of January, the start of the Hatsu Basho. Hiroshi awoke to the soft, tapping sounds and a whiteness that covered the earth like feathers and muffled the world around him. He might have fallen back asleep if he hadn’t heard Takara’s excited voice already at the front door, imagining Haru not far behind his young daughter. His first match was that afternoon and he was due at the stable for a short workout before going to the stadium. But for the moment, he lay perfectly still and listened.

When Hiroshi stepped onto the
dohyo
, frenzied shouts from the audience filled the stadium. He bowed low and automatically moved through the opening rituals. His opponent was the up-and-coming wrestler Ogawa, young and large, his girth spilling over his
mawashi
belt. Hiroshi knew he’d never win the tournament, much less the match, unless he found a balance within himself; the concentration and harmony that felt very far away since Aki’s death. He glanced up at the audience as he stepped toward the center of the ring and crouched down for the first round of stare-downs. He concentrated his stare on the fatty pockets just below the young wrestler’s eyes. Ogawa didn’t flinch, his eyes narrowing with determination.

The initial impact of his opponent’s body was hard and solid. Hiroshi stepped back but didn’t charge as he normally would. He felt lost in a haze and couldn’t move. The next hit from the young wrestler came quickly and sent him precariously close to the edge of the
dohyo
. Along with the sudden silence of the crowd, he heard Aki’s voice whisper in his ear, “What are you waiting for?” Hiroshi looked up and felt she was there. He had let her down so many times in life. It was, in the end, the last thing he could do for her in death,
to win this tournament. When Ogawa charged at him again, Hiroshi reacted quickly and grabbed the wrestler’s
mawashi
belt, twisting around and pushing him out of the
dohyo
first.

The roar of the crowd was deafening.

The wind blew sharp and cold as Haru walked in the garden with Takara. It was always the wind that carried the past back to her—unexpected and surprising each time—an icy whisper on her cheek that came with a winter breeze or a blustery day that sent leaves falling to the ground. Sometimes, it was a hot breath blown against the back of her neck, like a teasing voice or just a hint of the winds that had carried the inferno which had killed her mother and devastated her country so many years ago. It was an unforgiving wind that had left her hands without sensation and ended her childhood; a wind that had eventually taken Aki. However the winds came, they were invisible and eternal, something she’d never be able to grasp. The sharp winds now carried the scent of her mother’s narcissus perfume and a faraway trace of wood smoke. It wasn’t a sentimental wind but a clear and telling one.

Like her, Takara came alive among the plants and trees in the garden. The little girl ran down the path ahead of her. It felt as if the world around them were yawning awake, the garden filled with
ume
blossoms, the first blooms bursting white and pale pink against the blue sky. The new house Hiroshi had bought looked large and commanding. After Aki’s death, he sold their house in Shoto in the Shibuya Ward and returned to Yanaka and a traditional Japanese-style house using wood posts and beams, with overhanging eaves and a wraparound veranda. It was a lovely piece of property, tucked away from the noise of Tokyo, yet near enough to the heart of the city by train or car. When Haru stayed to help raise Takara, one wing of the house
had been set aside for her. Hiroshi also left the details of the garden up to her, and she chose
sakura
, maple, and wisteria trees for both their beauty and intimacy. She and Takara wandered down long winding paths through a variety of bamboo, irises, and lilies surrounding the pond. She saw hints of Deer Park in every corner. In the distance, willows moved in the wind like young geisha in dance. Each turn brought a new surprise; everything discovered to be seen and enjoyed.

She knew Aki would have loved this house and garden, and the thought brought a sharp ache. She couldn’t imagine the pain Aki must have been in to leave Takara. She remembered the way her own grief after her sister’s death was filled with movement, in tending to Takara, in teaching her classes, and in taking care of the mountains of details. It was the details that saved her, storing Aki’s kimonos, packing her possessions, putting away her life.

And while Takara understood that her mother wouldn’t be returning, death was still too large a concept for a five-year-old to grasp. At first, Takara remained quiet, not voiceless as Aki had been after their mother’s death, but subdued, a stillness within her that was just as frightening. Haru saw her bewilderment. She stayed with her niece, slept in her room at night, and watched her carefully as the passing months gradually brought back her playful self again. Haru had always been a constant in Takara’s young life, both as aunt and mother, and she struggled with the pleasure and the guilt. Was Takara her second chance? Did it have to come at Aki’s expense? She flushed with the anger and the remorse of it; she hadn’t been able to pull Aki through the fire this time.

Still, Takara never ceased to surprise her. The other morning she heard her niece talking to someone in the garden, but there wasn’t anyone in sight.

“Who were you talking to?” she asked.

Takara looked at her, wide-eyed. “I was talking to
okasan.”

“Was your mother here?”

Takara looked around the garden and answered, “She’s everywhere.”