The Street of a Thousand Blossoms by Gail Tsukiyama
Now, as he lay wide awake, Hiroshi’s mind raced. His thoughts revolved around the match, how he might have prevented the injury if he’d just turned his knee into, instead of away from, Nakamura’s leg trip. Afterward, all he remembered was the impact of both their bodies falling and hitting the dohyo, while the pain in his knee raged like a spreading fire and forced him to stay down. The audience had quieted as Tanaka-oyakata hovered over him. He was finally ruled the winner, the judges being in agreement that Nakamura’s elbow touched the dohyo first. It was a short-lived victory. Due to his injury, Hiroshi had to forfeit his remaining matches, having won only four out of fifteen, his first tournament lost in almost five years. Tanaka-oyakata quickly applied for an injury exemption from the Aki Basho in September so Hiroshi wouldn’t risk a demotion. An exemption allowed him to miss one tournament, leaving him seven months for his knee to heal before the Hatsu Basho in January. He knew that many sumo careers ended just as quickly as they’d begun because of lesser injuries. He saw again the grim look on Tanaka-oyakata’s face when he told him, “Hiroshi-san, I won’t tell you otherwise. Few wrestlers are able to fight professionally again after an injury like yours.”
Hiroshi’s emotions shifted several times a day since his injury—the slow, uphill climb from disbelief to acceptance—followed by a growing frustration that swelled into a heated anger. At night, it transformed itself into the acidic taste of fear that ate away at him in the darkness of his room. It took both intelligence and strength to climb the ranks. From the time he was a boy, his ojiichan had told him, “To have strength without knowing how to use it means nothing.” All his life, his mind and body had worked in unison. If pain was a means of getting there—the sore muscles, pulled hamstrings, the dislocated shoulder—it was all part of being sumotori. At twenty-six, sumo had been his all-consuming passion. Like the daily bowls of rice, the chankonabe stew filled with chicken, beef, fish, shredded crab, or fist-sized shrimp, it sated his appetite, gave nourishment to his life. There was never a need for anything else, until now.
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.
Circles
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.
Warmer Days
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 Ke
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.
Hiroshi walked slowly to his grandparents’ house. He knew Kenji would marry Mika Abe just by the way they looked at each other, the quick glances and shy smiles that no mask could hide. Hiroshi’s life as a sumotori left little time for anything or anyone else. Sumo had been his sole mistress and he felt it acutely now limping down his childhood streets, filled with families and children.
Hiroshi turned the corner and shook his thoughts away. He slowed as the sweet aroma of grilling yakitori and sembei crackers set his stomach growling and made him once again nostalgic for his childhood. Hiroshi walked slowly on, oblivious to the stares of recognition, to the young children who stopped and pointed at him, to the shouts of “Takanoyama, Takanoyama!” None of it mattered at that moment. He felt a dull ache in his knee as he walked toward the street of a thousand blossoms, to the house of his grandparents, where his dreams of sumo had first taken root.
18
Of Great Beauty
1952
Yoshio sat in the courtyard and heard footsteps moving toward the front gate. The chimes rang as the wooden gate was pushed open, the long whine followed by someone stepping in. He leaned forward toward the sounds and couldn’t quite place the movements. Fumiko would have helped the gate along impatiently. Kenji would close it slowly, meticulously, while Hiroshi, who had paid them a surprise visit last week, would have let the gate slam behind him. The steps he heard didn’t resemble any he’d already memorized.
Yoshio had become more fragile in the past year, venturing out less and less. His body was slowly disobeying his wishes, slight tremors and persistent headaches arriving more often, along with an increasing loss of balance. Sometimes he wavered from side to side, as if he were standing on a boat in the middle of some endless sea, his body following the motions of the waves. Most of the time, Yoshio was content just sitting in a quiet place for most of the day, out in the sunny courtyard or in the warmth of the kitchen.
Again, Yoshio heard the footsteps moving toward him. Was it simply the wind playing tricks on him? He listened. Usually, his impulse was to call out, but Yoshio remained silent, waiting. He concentrated on something else, a memory. The first time Kenji visited with Mika. Yoshio still remembered the smile he heard in Fumiko’s voice greeting the young woman. “Welcome, welcome, Mika-san! Kenji-chan has told us you met at the university.” Fumiko had stood beside him and brushed her hand against his. Light, like a butterfly’s wings. Kenji was twenty-three, and he knew she thought it was about time one of her grandsons had a girlfriend.
He heard Fumiko inside cooking dinner, the scent of rice wine and sugar in the air letting him know that he was still alive. He tilted his face up toward the warmth of the setting sun and closed his eyes against the dull throbbing in his head. He hadn’t forgotten the footsteps, feeling someone standing right there beside him, even if he refused to acknowledge their presence. Yoshio wasn’t ready to go yet. Life was too long and too short at the same time. He hoped to be there for Hiroshi’s return to sumo, and Kenji’s marriage to Mika, whose voice sounded earnest and intelligent. And there was still so much he hadn’t said to Fumiko, one last dance around the circle. He sighed and relented. He’d have to wait for her wherever spirits went. The pain increased and spread to the top of his head, unbearable, like a vise squeezing from both sides. He reached out and fell to the ground. So this was how it felt to have his life drained from him, leaving the weight of your body behind. Yoshio opened his eyes again, and for a moment he saw everything around him as clear as day. He looked up to see his daughter, Misako, standing near him, smiling quietly. Behind her was a very blue sky. He wished for Fumiko to walk out just then so that he might have one last glimpse of her. Instead, her last fragrant lilies were right in front of him, the tiny white bells balancing on thin stalks above green, green leaves. Like Fumiko, they, too, were of great beauty. Yoshio smiled at
Part Three
The flowers whirl away
in the wind like snow.
The thing that falls away
is myself.
—Prime Minister Kintsune
19
Our Lady’s Tears
1953
Fumiko carefully clipped the thin stems of the lilies, their heavy fragrance a reminder of joy and sorrow. It was on a windless day in May a year ago that she’d found Yoshio’s body lying so peacefully among them, his eyes open and his lips parted in a slight smile. In his gaze she saw that he wasn’t afraid and it somehow calmed her. She called out, “Yoshio,” just once before kneeling beside him, leaning over to close his eyes, and then taking his still-warm hand in hers. In their final moments together, Fumiko closed her eyes and saw the graceful steps of his youth, moving in the circle of the Bon Odori. It was his dancing that she loved first, the lightness of his steps as he moved toward her. The rest came so easily, a lifetime that passed too quickly. Her heart raced. What hadn’t she told him? She couldn’t think then. She couldn’t think. And so, she let Yoshio go.
She tasted the sourness that rose up to her throat and swallowed it back down. Her grief had changed with age, dull and flat now like an ongoing hum, no longer the loud, frantic scream of youth. In the end, the body betrayed everyone. Fumiko pushed back a strand of gray hair, smiled, and leaned against the wooden bench to push herself up. Her knees ached and were giving her trouble, her movements slower and requiring more effort.