The Street of a Thousand Blossoms by Gail Tsukiyama
Yoshiwara stopped mixing then crossed the room to pull a book down from one of the top shelves. “I have something I want you to study,” he said, handing the large, leather-bound volume to Kenji. “Take this home and memorize it.” Then Yoshiwara returned to his painting.
With the palm of his hand, Kenji brushed the handsome brown cover made of fine, soft calfskin, and carefully opened it, glancing down at the highest-quality washi paper. Turning to the title page, he read its flowing, gold characters: The Book of Masks.
The Ghost Warrior
After Kenji had gone home, Akira sharpened his chisels and cleaned his paintbrushes. The boy was so much like him, so filled with wonder and fascination about the masks. And they were both orphans, though he knew no two stories were alike. He had walked away from his family, while Kenji had never known his parents, and sometimes Akira wished for the same—the luxury of invention, of believing in the family that might have been. Sometimes, without his knowing, he found himself re-creating the memory of their faces in a mask—the slight arch of an eyebrow that belonged to his mother, the sharp, turned-down mouth of his sister when she sulked, the dark, endless stare of his father. They came back to him at the most unexpected times. After more than twenty years, they weren’t so far away, after all.
Akira looked up at the shelf where The Book of Masks had been, feeling suddenly bereft. It had been there on the top shelf since the day he opened the mask shop, twelve years ago. Now the vacant spot was a distraction, as he glanced up and then away again several times like a child, hoping it might magically reappear.
Just then, Nazo jumped up on the table. “Yes, Nazo, I’m all yours now,” he said. As he stroked the cat, Akira relaxed. It had been a busy week. It seemed a dream to think the day had come that his masks would garner the highest price from the most important actor in the theater. And now he had perhaps found his heir apparent. Akira was as certain that Kenji would make a fine artisan as his own sensei, Wakayama-san, had been of him. It showed in his passionate concentration, as if gazing into each mask was like falling in love. He knew it was the right time for the boy to begin learning the craft from the bottom up. He glanced again at the empty spot on the shelf; the book he’d once received as a gift from Wakayama-san was a fine place for Kenji to start. In it were the detailed drawings of each of the eighty masks used in Noh. It would also give Kenji an introduction and brief description of the two hundred fifty plays written during Japan’s feudal years, stories that Akira had come to know by heart and that had become a part of his life, though he had never set foot onstage. He smiled down at Nazo. After all, the drama of his own life was more than enough theater for him.
Akira Yoshiwara had been born in the port city of Yokohama, less than twenty miles from Tokyo; he was the eldest son of well-to-do parents. His father was not an educated man, but one whose business acumen had made him a great deal of money in the fish-canning industry. He had had high expectations for his eldest son to follow in his footsteps and take over the family business. But ever since Akira could remember, he had hated the factory—the constant noise of the machines, the slimy slip of his sandals against the wet wood floor, the rough, uneducated workers who teased him as he walked through the building to his father’s office. “Ah, look who honors us with his presence,” they called out. “It’s about time to get those clean hands dirty!” they taunted when he stopped by after school at his father’s insistence. But worst of all, he couldn’t bear the stink that permeated everything, especially his father’s clothes. Every night when he came home, the odor of whiskey and dead fish hung heavy in the air of their house. Even after his father had bathed and soaked in the ofuro every evening, the fish smell still seemed to course through his bloodstream and seep out of his pores. When his father was angry, his red-rimmed eyes grew wide and bulged so that Akira thought he was even beginning to resemble a fish. It wasn’t a life he could ever imagine for himself.
His mother was no more sympathetic. “He is your father,” she told him over and over, “and you must do as he says. The factory is yours to inherit as the eldest son, but instead of rejoicing, you find fault with a life that has brought our family such good fortune!”
“Give the factory to Shintaro,” Akira said, “or Suki. I’d rather be penniless than spend my life working in that cannery every day.”
The sharp sting of his mother’s slap startled him, taught him to watch his words and keep silent, even though his feelings grew in strength and conviction over time. And as much as he loved his younger brother, Shintaro, and sister, Suki, he knew they didn’t understand him any more than his parents did.
Akira knew he was different. He excelled in school and enjoyed art most, saw beauty in things most boys took for granted—the curve of a branch, the different shades of green in the grass, the shape and texture of stones. The life he imagined for himself had to do with beautiful things. He began taking the train to Tokyo, visiting galleries and then art studios, until one day he stumbled upon Yutaka Wakayama’s masks. They were like nothing Akira had ever seen. As soon as he met his future sensei, he knew that he wanted to be a great mask artisan. At the time, Wakayama was near fifty and well known in the theater world. If Akira hadn’t had the courage to leave his home and family at fifteen to become Wakayama-sensei’s student in Tokyo, he might still be back in Yokohama, canning fish. He remembered boarding the train before his parents awoke to find him gone for good, feeling both exhilarated and frightened. As the train pulled away from the station at Yokohama, he began to laugh, which brought tears that didn’t stop until he reached the Kawasaki station.
His father had disowned him twenty years ago. His parents were dead now, his brother and sister a long-ago memory from another life. But even now, whenever he passed a fish shop, the smell transported him right back to the hateful years of his youth.
Akira glanced at the ivory cat sitting on another shelf, the gift from Otomo Matsui, an acknowledgment of his talent and the success he had achieved in his art. Still, there was something he couldn’t find in the book of masks, or the intricately carved cat, or in his beloved masks themselves. He missed the touch of another man. The first time Wakayama had stroked him tenderly across the cheek at seventeen, it was like a startling welcome through his body, and something, something Akira knew he had been searching for all his life, had finally come true. Since Wakayama-sensei had died ten years ago, there had been no lasting relationship in his life, only a series of mistakes, quick, empty encounters that had left him dazed and discouraged, and worst of all, the young writer Sato, who had left him heartbroken. Three years had passed since he’d left, and Akira still felt Sato’s smooth body pressed against his back, his quickening breath, followed by the flicker of his tongue on his neck. Like a ghostly presence, it haunted him at the most unexpected times. It wasn’t the close paternal comfort that he’d had with Wakayama, but a flash destined to burn itself out, leaving ashes.
Over the years, actors and artists came to his shop, revering him and hoping that he would consent to make them a famous Yoshiwara mask. If he let himself, he might find one who would return his affection, relieve his loneliness for just one evening as he’d done before. He thought of Otomo Matsui and felt as if all the air had been pulled out of him, then pushed the silly thought from his mind. Matsui had been linked to the most famous geisha in Kyoto, Hanae Mitsuhara. It was rumored he was her danna, her patron, and they had a child sent away to boarding school in Europe. Besides, Akira Yoshiwara knew it wasn’t for himself that Otomo Matsui, or any of them, visited his shop. It was for the masks—the one thing he could hide behind.
A Defining Moment
Ever since he was a young boy, Hiroshi’s obaachan had told him that each person’s life was made up of one defining moment, that instant when he would understand his unmei—his destiny and direction in life. “Whether you step toward it or not is up to you,” his grandmother added. “Just remember, it will follow you no matter where you go.”
But the more Hir
“But how will I know it’s my destiny?” he asked his obaachan.
His grandmother laughed. He thought his obaachan sounded very young, more like his mother than his grandmother. “Like love, it will possess you, Hiro-chan,” she said. “You can’t help but know.”
Magic
Six weeks later, in late October, Kenji attended a Noh performance with Yoshiwara-sensei. He arrived early at the mask shop to find his teacher dressed in a formal black kimono, his hair tied back and beard neatly trimmed as he paced the floor, waiting. Kenji was dressed in his dark blue, double-breasted school blazer and shorts, the only formal clothes he had. He had thought about borrowing one of his ojiichan’s kimonos but decided against it. Now, he wished he had, instead of looking like a twelve-year-old schoolboy.
Yoshiwara stopped abruptly. “Ah, you’re finally here,” he snapped.
“It’s still early,” Kenji answered. “We have plenty of time.”
Yoshiwara-sensei smiled and disappeared into the back room. When he emerged again, he was carrying a blue silk kimono with a subtle white wave pattern on it. “Perhaps you might want to change into this. It will be much more comfortable.”
Kenji hesitated.
“It’s much too small for me,” Yoshiwara added. “I was hoping you might honor me by wearing it. It would be a shame to waste such a good kimono.”
Kenji eyed the kimono and bowed low to his sensei before receiving it. “Domo arigato gozaimasu.” The material felt smooth and cool to his touch.
“Go change then,” he instructed. “And hurry, so we won’t be late.”
Moments later, Kenji had shed his blazer, white shirt, shorts, and pulled on the silk kimono, so light and fluid against his body. He tied the sash and glimpsed his reflection in the dirty window. For the first time he felt like an adult, no longer just the younger brother, the one left behind.
Yoshiwara locked the shop and they made their way toward the train station. Kenji’s voice filled the quiet alley with excited questions. How long were the plays? Had he seen Otomo Matsui in this role before? What was the theater like?
“Time stops when you’re watching Noh,” Yoshiwara turned to him and said. “Life pauses. It’s best seen if you clear your mind and let the performance take over.”
As they approached the train station, Yoshiwara told him that they wouldn’t be seeing a full-length program, beginning with the ceremonial Okina, the ritual dance of an old man. The Okina was usually followed by five Noh plays, with a short Kyogen, or comic play, performed in between. Instead, they would be seeing two Noh plays, separated by a Kyogen play, as ordered by the Home Ministry.
The train station was bustling and noisy; a knot of people gathered around a young soldier who was leaving to fight in China, while the kempeitai, the military police, with rifles slung over their shoulders, lingered on the platform, and beggars and vendors pushed and shoved in front of people. Kenji could barely keep up with Yoshiwara’s quick stride.
On the train, Kenji remained quiet the rest of the way into Tokyo center, secretly hoping everything would be as magical as his sensei made it sound. October was still very warm and the train crowded. He began to sweat with the excitement of visiting the theater and seeing Matsui perform. He raised his arms to the back of the wooden seat in front of him when he felt the dampness, and feared it would leave dark stains on the kimono Yoshiwara had given him.
When Kenji stepped from the train station and out into the afternoon sunlight, he paused to look around at what was once the bustling theater district of Tokyo. It looked tired and stripped of the glamour he imagined. The buildings stood in shadows, looking dark and dingy, the slip of blue sky above, mocking. Many of the shops and theaters had been boarded up and closed since the China war. People lingered in front of the station as if held captive, as if they had stopped and simply couldn’t go on. Kenji felt something sink in the pit of his stomach.
“Kenji.” Yoshiwara’s voice startled him. “Come this way,” he said, and touched his shoulder.
The moment they entered the dark coolness of the Jincho Theater, it was as if he’d entered another world. Time did stop for Kenji. They found their seats up front in the second row. Much to Kenji’s surprise, the theater was almost filled. The soft chanting of the chorus onstage filled the room and mesmerized him. The curtainless stage was simple and bare, covered with a long sloping roof like that of a Shinto shrine. Kenji spied a lone pine tree painted on the back wall. He had read that it symbolized longevity and steadfastness, standing behind a wooden bridge from which the actors entered and departed. He heard drums, and a flute begin to play in the background. Yoshiwara explained that the chorus of eight, called the jiutai, sat to the side of the stage and narrated the story.
At first, Kenji was too excited to pay attention to the chanted words that hummed through the room, muted by the beating of his own heart. Hagoromo was the story of a heavenly maiden and a fisherman who finds her magical feather robe. Otomo Matsui would appear as the fisherman. When the players all came forward, filling the spare stage, Kenji saw that each step was like a dance. Each gesture meant something, and each word was recited like poetry. Matsui’s every move animated his wooden mask and brought it to life. As he bowed his head, the fisherman appeared to smile, but with a slight upward tilt the fisherman stood defiant. Kenji studied every one of the great actor’s shifts and moves, and marveled as the mask became part of Otomo Matsui’s own body.
Afterward, he and Yoshiwara-sensei went backstage to congratulate and thank Matsui-sama. A small crowd had gathered around the actor, but he looked up and saw Yoshiwara-sensei immediately. “Come, come,” he announced, “I want you all to know this is the man who creates each of our wondrous masks.”
Yoshiwara hesitated, but Matsui urged him forward and bowed low to him, still clutching the fisherman’s mask in his hand. Kenji had never seen his sensei so happy.
“And who is this with you?” Matsui asked, as he stood straight.
It took a moment for Kenji to realize that Matsui had focused his attention on him. Up close he appeared older, though no less commanding.
“This is the next great mask maker for the Noh.” Yoshiwara turned to him. “Kenji Matsumoto.”
Kenji bowed low to Matsui-sama. It was the first time Yoshiwara had said anything about his work. He felt the blood rush to his head with the suddenness of his sensei’s praise.
“And how did you enjoy our performance?” Matsui asked.
Kenji felt his face burn and he quickly bowed again. For the entire performance, he had felt suspended above his real life—his troubles with the other boys at school, the seed of fear planted in the middle of his stomach since the China war began, even his hunger had suddenly subsided as if by magic. “I found it the most moving performance I’ve ever seen.”
Matsui laughed. “Yoshiwara-san, I don’t know what kind of mask maker this boy is, but he certainly knows how to praise the actor behind the mask!”
With that, the entire group laughed. Kenji swallowed with relief when he looked up to find that attention had shifted and Matsui was already greeting other admirers.
A month after seeing Matsui’s performance, when Kenji entered the warm shop one November afternoon, Yoshiwara unexpectedly stopped working and asked, “What are the two categories of masks?”
Kenji put down his schoolbooks on the table, watched the wood dust rise into the air. It was like a test, he thought, but one he wanted to take. “The two categories of Noh masks are male and female.”
“They are?” Yoshiwara glanced up, eyed him closely and waited.
Kenji wet his lips, pushed his hair away from his eyes. “The four categories of male masks are the Okina, human, ghost, and spirit and demon masks. The two categories of the female masks are the human and the ghost and spirit masks.”
Yoshiwara nodded and smiled.
Then he was silent again.
And what if Kenji didn’t know the answers to Yoshiwara’s questions tomorrow? He took a deep breath, picked up the broom, and began to sweep away the wood shavings. Nazo suddenly jumped out in front of him, his body arching as he rubbed up against his legs, reassuring him that he would.
Battle March
When Hiroshi arrived at practice on a chilly December morning, he found another man standing next to his coach, dressed in an expensive dark blue silk brocade kimono, rather than a cotton yukata. He was a big man, even taller than Masuda-san, though he was thinner and carried himself well. He watched Hiroshi at practice while casually chatting with Masuda-san. Ignoring the audience, Hiroshi concentrated on his match as he twisted his body to the right and moved quickly out of the way as his opponent charged at him, missing the tackle and stepping out of bounds.
For the past year his coach had taken a real interest in Hiroshi’s skill and speed as a wrestler. Every day at practice, Masuda-san watched him intently and seemed to encourage him more than any other student. “Ah, you see,” he told the other boys gathered around during physical education. “Hiroshi understands how to use his body—the power of it must be controlled, channeled seamlessly into the movements. Did you see how he used his opponent’s weight and force against him?” The boys bowed their heads, stifling their laughter. Many of them thought Masuda-san strange; he was a large man and it was rumored he once hoped to be a rikishi, but hadn’t skill enough to succeed and remain within a stable. His past was evident in his small office, crowded with his wrestling trophies and certificates, but most intriguing to Hiroshi were the photos of sumotori that lined the wall—their bulky, imposing bodies filling the space around them.
As Hiroshi continued to train, he began to see sumo as more than just a sport—it was deeply rooted in the Japanese culture, and he loved the dance of it all: the small expressions of tradition and ritual, the power water and cleansing salt Masuda-san always had at practice. Hiroshi had taken to it as if the holds that brought his opponent to the ground were as natural as walking. In his spare time Hiroshi studied moves and techniques, read sumo magazines with a gradual yearning to become a sumotori. The growing ambition was as subtle as swallowing. One day it was just a part of who he was.