Untangling My Chopsticks (23 page)

At Tomiko's suggestion, I chose one of the rice dumplings we had brought back from the Omuras'. The ones blended with bulgur seemed most appropriate for breakfast, so I placed one in my red lacquer bowl. Tomiko ladled the thick golden soup over the grain-flecked paddy, then dropped in a pinch of feathery bonito flakes. They fluttered on the surface and then wilted, adding a cured fish tang that nicely cut through the soup's heavy sweetness. Within minutes, the mochi at the bottom of my bowl had melted, so I lifted it up in long noodle-like strands, which I wound around my chopsticks.

“Don't choke,” Tomiko cautioned everyone at the table. Every year in Japan several people die eating the mochi in their ozoni. Although freshly made mochi poses less of a hazard, the commercial versions soften into thick gluey ropes that lodge in people's throats.

After carefully finishing our soup, we all climbed into Yasu's truck to drive to the lake. On the way, we stopped at his widowed mother's house so he could pay his respects, a common New Year's Day tradition. Given the strained nature of their relationship, I was advised to stay in the truck, while Tomiko and her mother accompanied Yasu. No sooner had I waved them off than they were marching back to the truck from the perfunctory joyless visit based on filial piety.

Shortly before noon, Yasu's truck pulled up the muddy dirt path toward the small placid lake surrounded by pines. Many of the swimmers had already arrived and were milling around a worn wooden building in various degrees of undress. Yasu waved and chatted with several swim mates, while a group of spectators began to build a small fire in an old oil drum to warm up the swimmers after their dip. When it spat and crackled, Tomiko and I hurried over to thaw our fingers over the rippling heat.

Suddenly, the instructor pulled up in a white Nissan. Clearly, he wasn't going to swim with his students. He had on a natty russet wool coat, flared tan tweed pants, and hazelnut suede shoes that carried him in a purposeful direction over to the dock. As the rest of the students slipped off their clothes, the instructor lowered the thermometer into the water. The girls in their navy-blue one-piece suits stood trembling under the eaves of the building. The boys and men in their diaper-soft thongs broke out in goose pimples. Some tucked their palms under their armpits to warm up; others clasped their hands together, as if shaking dice.

“Thirty-six degrees,” the instructor exclaimed with a wry smile. Cheers rose up through the chatters. The year before the swimmers had been forced to crack the ice to get into the water.

The adults and children walked single file down the dock's wooden stairs and silently slipped into the frigid water. There was no yelling, hollering, or even squealing from the children. At one point, Yasu began to move across the glassy surface holding his head above the water and one arm high above his head, as if carrying an imaginary sword. He was imitating an old samurai swimming art known as
suieijutsu,
which developed as a way for a samurai to cross a body of water in his armor. Yasu's swimming club had also mastered the ability to move silently through the water, a useful samurai technique that enabled the warriors to ap
proach enemy territory making no more noise than the sound of small waves gently lapping the shore. Its application to contemporary life was the mental and physical discipline required to master the art.

Finally, the instructor called his students from the lake. Shuddering and blue, they emerged from the water, whereupon mothers and wives lunged forward to swaddle their loved ones in towels. Several swimmers dashed over to the oil drum, where they stood in bare feet and terry-cloth capes waving their fingers over the orange flames. While Tomiko rubbed Yasu's sinewy body with a bath towel, he pressed a cigarette between his purple lips. Minutes later, he tossed the butt into the drum and put on his blue jeans, white turtleneck, and red down vest. After waving farewell to several friends, he bowed to his instructor and climbed into his truck.

By the time we returned home, the ashen sky had become smudged with black. My watch read almost 5:30. After days of preparation and anticipation, the osechi ryori hour had finally arrived.

Tomiko took off her padded jean jacket and then whispered to her mother, who nodded and smiled at me. “Come upstairs,” said Tomiko, “I have a surprise for you.” She looked excited as she always did when introducing me to something new. We climbed the wooden stairs to her bedroom, leaving her mother setting the table and Yasu watching a game show.

“This is for you to wear,” said Tomiko, gesturing to a gorgeous red-, white-, and green-plaid kimono spread across her bed. She was beaming.

“Where did you get it?” I whispered, stroking the thick cotton.

“I bought it for my flower arranging classes. And this one's
from my wedding.” From the open wardrobe she pulled out a shimmering pale peach kimono covered with ivory and watery blue chrysanthemums—the family crest of the Imperial Household. The fine silk looked as fragile as a sheet of phyllo dough.

In a matter of seconds, I realized why wearing a kimono was no longer practical for modern-day life. It was impossible to put on alone! At first I thought I would go into my bedroom and simply fold the kimono around myself like a bathrobe, but it proved much more complicated.

Tomiko opened her bureau drawer and pulled out a light cotton underkimono. “This goes on first,” she said, shaking out the folds. I removed my clothes, keeping on my bra and underpants for modesty's sake, then put on the thin white robe. Tomiko secured it with numerous strings. She eased my arms through a sort of undercoat and cinched the cotton cords snug round my rib cage and waist. Over that, she placed a heavy stiff collar that extended over my shoulders, not unlike what football players wear. Then she helped me into the actual kimono. The ponderous fabric slumped over my shoulders and bunched around my feet. She hoisted it up, creating a fold in the middle, then strapped on the obi to hold the pleat in place. She knotted a red cord around the obi and yanked it tight in the back to stay secure. My breasts were flattened and I could only take short shallow breaths.

Because the obi cut into my sternum, Tomiko helped pull the little split-toed white socks over my feet. With the tight tube of kimono around my legs, I took baby steps into my room to put on lip-gloss and the gold bracelet John had given me for Christmas.

Several minutes later, Tomiko met me at the top of the stairs in her wedding kimono. She was totally transformed. Out of her blue jeans, loose shirt, and bulky sweater, she radiated femininity.

The kimono elongated her torso and created a smooth cylinder from neck to toe, the hallmark of a beautiful Japanese figure. A striking navy obi with red, yellow, white, and turquoise chrysanthemums hugged her waist. A flirtatious cream collar peeked out from under the pale peach robe. The sleeves were just high enough to expose a sensual swatch of skin above her wrist. When she moved her arm, the inner fold revealed an erotic flash of scarlet and white silk.

“Kirei, kirei,” murmured Tomiko's mother as we entered the family room. She had changed for the occasion into a puce sweater and brown wool skirt. Yasu still had on his clothes from swimming, including the down vest.

“Nice,” he said, with a nicotine grin. “Pretty Japanese ladies.”

As Tomiko and I sank to our knees on floor pillows, her mother filled our sake cups with an amber-green liquid. Called
toso,
it was a traditional New Year's elixir made from sweet rice wine seasoned with a Chinese herbal-medicine mixture called
tososan.
Meant to ward off the evil spirits, the drink was honeyed, warm, and laced with cinnamon and peppery sansho.

To display the contents of the stacked lacquer boxes, Tomiko's mother had arranged the various layers in the center of the table. The top layer always contains the traditional sweet dishes and hors d'oeuvres, while the second layer holds steamed, boiled, and vinegared offerings. The third box consists of foods that have been grilled or fried.

Since not everything fit into the lacquer boxes, Tomiko's mother had placed a long rectangular dish at everyone's place holding three different nibbles. The first one was a small bowl of herring eggs to represent fertility. Waxy yellow in color, they had a plastic pop and mild saline flavor. Next came a miniature stack
of sugar- and soy-braised burdock root cut like penne pasta and tossed with a rich nutty cream made from pounded sesame seeds. Called
tataki gobo
(pounded burdock root), the dish is so named because the gobo (root) symbolizes the hope for a stable, deeply rooted life, while the homonym for tataki (pounded) also means “joy aplenty.” The third item consisted of a tiny clump of intensely flavored soy-caramelized sardines that tasted like ocean candy. Called
tazukuri,
meaning “paddy-tilling,” the sticky fish symbolized hopes for a good harvest, since in ancient times, farmers used chopped sardines along with ash for fertilizer.

After these tidbits, we switched to regular hot sake and began eating from the various boxes. With our special New Year's chopsticks, we picked up fat shiny black soybeans cooked in clear sugar syrup to bring us good health. We bit into salt-grilled shrimp with long whiskers and sucked out the savory head juices. The shrimp represented one's hope to live long enough to have lengthy whiskers like an old man and a curled back like many of Japan's elderly (who suffer from osteoporosis due to the lack of calcium in their diet).

We crunched on a sprightly salad of shredded daikon and carrots tossed with vinegar and sugar and then sampled various vegetables, which, honestly, looked incredibly unappetizing. Having marinated in a potent sugar-soy bath that would preserve the vegetables for several days, the carrot flowers, broccoli florets, and snow peas had all turned dirty shades of rust-green and olive-brown.

After more sake, we dipped into salmon roe for fecundity, followed by salmon and kelp rolls. We also had slices of rare beef that had been seared in a drip of soy, plus grilled duck and pickled lotus root rounds, representing the root of the lotus flower that blooms in the lake of the Land of Happiness where Buddha
lives. Each morsel lay nestled in separate sections of the various lacquer boxes.

“Have some
tai
(sea bream),” said Tomiko, passing me a container holding several slices of the coral-red fish, eaten because it sounds like
medetai,
meaning “auspicious.” Her pale powdered cheeks had become flushed from the sake. She fanned herself with her palm.
“Atsui
(hot), no?” She looked at Yasu.

“Most Japanese ladies no drink alcohol,” said Yasu, turning to me. “Makes face too red.” He rubbed his cheek with his fist and laughed. I looked at Tomiko, who smirked, then bit into a huge slice of beef.

I was the first to stop eating. Not because I was full, but because the obi had begun to choke my waist. I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Where to begin? I tugged on the back of the obi and felt a slight ease of pressure. Then I reached inside my kimono sleeves to loosen a cord or two. I pulled, twisted, wrenched, and yanked until I had eased open the obi, just enough to accommodate another piece of eel, some pickled mackerel, and a bite, which I immediately regretted, of sea slug, a slimy, wet, bony sea creature.

By the time we had finished another round of sake, fresh strawberries, and a cup of brewed green tea, the obi had tightened its vise-like grip. Is this what geisha and
maiko
(apprentice geisha) have to put up with night after night? I wondered. Women must withstand such discomfort in this culture, physically and emotionally. As much as I encouraged my female students to pursue their interest in medicine and law, they would always shrug and say it was not the way. Wives tolerated their husbands' philandering by quietly telling themselves it was their way. No wonder Tomiko preferred our Western way of thinking, which offered women much more freedom.

Not wanting to offend Tomiko, I kept on the torturous kimono to wash and dry all the dishes. We all bowed goodnight to each other and headed upstairs, except for Tomiko's mother, who planned to sleep on the couch in the family room.

Such relief to undo the obi! I peeled off the kimono and various undergarments until I was down to my underwear. Pink cord marks curled around my ribs like serpents. Lying in bed, trying to rub away the cord marks, I attempted to recall all we had eaten but rolled over and fell asleep before I got to dessert.

14.

or the next several weeks Kyoto became a frozen world of black and white. The snow had arrived. The Kamo River hardened into a windswept bolt of silvery ice. Shrine and temple courtyards became empty white expanses dotted with shivering trees and snow-cloaked lanterns. The temperature dipped into the teens. The sky lost its color. Everyone around me, it seemed, was suffering.