The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (4 page)

Whenever Kenji heard the low murmur of his
obaachan
beginning another story about his parents, he would disappear into his room, or wait outside for his
ojiichan
to return, or wander through the labyrinths of alleyways. At the age of nine, he couldn’t bear to hear her story one more time. He used to make up his own stories, imagining his parents were secretly alive, living somewhere close by—memories of their earlier lives lost after swimming safely to shore. He felt this every time he saw a man or woman walking down the road who resembled the photo his
obaachan
kept of his parents, and he was sure that like magic or wishful desire, they would recognize the baby they’d left behind. Eventually both his and his
obaachan’s
stories began to hurt his stomach, giving him cramps that left his skin clammy and his head spinning. He couldn’t breathe for the sorrow that hung on every word.

Sometimes, if it was still early, Kenji would walk toward the Yanaka
ginza
, lingering at the threshold of the small shops where repairmen patched bicycle tires, or craftsmen carved out
kime kome
dolls, covering their wood forms with red and purple brocaded cloth, painting their glistening white faces with a powdered seashell called
gofun
. Kenji stayed perfectly still and watched mesmerized as the inanimate object began taking on a life of its own. Soon the spinning motion of the bicycle tires would take people from one place to another, while a block of wood would be transformed into a graceful doll resembling a member of the imperial court. Knowing this gave Kenji a feeling of endless possibilities.

But nothing fascinated him more than the carved masks he discovered in a tiny shop, hidden away in one of the back alleyways. Kenji might have walked right by the shop if not for the sun’s reflection off the gold trim of a mask in the window—a rope of light pulling at him. Kenji gazed into the small showcase where three masks stared back at him, hollow-eyed and powerful—an old man with long trailing whiskers, a beautifully austere, white-faced woman, and a red-faced devil, trimmed with gold. The masks captivated Kenji like nothing else, sent a shiver through his body as if he had a fever. He pressed closer to the window and saw through dirty glass into a small,
cluttered room with two chairs and a table covered with papers. A tall shelf lined one wall with still other masks propped up on it. Toward the back of the shop a curtained doorway led to another room. No one seemed to be around. Suddenly, Kenji wanted desperately to see the other masks, a sharp longing that gave him courage. But before he could move, strange voices coming down the alley grew louder and he stepped back, half-hidden, to watch. One by one, two lavishly dressed people in dark Western clothing, and a woman in a bright silk kimono entered the battered, lopsided doorway of the shop. Kenji peeked inside to see them bowing low to a slight, bearded man who emerged from the back room, his long, disheveled hair covered with a fine dust.

Kenji’s
obaachan
later told him the shop belonged to a man named Akira Yoshiwara, who was well known throughout Japan as a master carver of Noh masks used in the theater. Rumors swirled around the eccentric artisan, who could pick and choose his clients, working for whom he wanted, when he wanted. Actors from all over vied for his masks, she said. Kenji daydreamed about being one of those clients, gliding into the tiny shop, holding each exquisite mask up to his face and breathing life into it.

When he heard his grandmother in the dining room telling Hiroshi yet another story, Kenji went outside through the courtyard to wait for his grandfather at the front gate. He heard stray voices echo through the alley, where oil lamps left an eerie yellowish glow. He turned when a gust of wind set the chimes tingling. Only when he heard the tap, tap, tap of his
ojiichan’s
cane against the pavement did he feel the hard stone of sorrow melt inside of him, and an anxious, yet tender expectation take its place.

Even as his eyesight worsened, his
ojiichan
insisted on keeping his daily routine, walking alone to the bar down several blocks to sit with his friends around the table and talk of their younger days, of the growing war in China, and of the ongoing string of victories by a young sumo named Futabayama. Sometimes, Kenji went with him,
sitting on a sticky chair in the corner to drink cold, sweetened tea, while his
ojiichan
drank beer with the other men, lost in the cloud of smoke and laughter. In the small, closed room, he watched the rough and thickened hands of the men move through the air like clumsy birds, listened to their deep voices, and felt comforted. Often he fell asleep to the static hum of live sumo tournaments or the war news from China broadcast over the radio, only to be awakened from faceless dreams by the voices of the old men calling out his name.

“Kenji-san, are we boring you?” they said, laughing.

Then slowly he’d awaken, bleary-eyed until the smoke-filled room came into focus and he saw his
ojiichan
sitting among the other men, his vague gaze cast over him like a net.

Now, Kenji stood up as his grandfather approached.

“What are you doing out here?” his
ojiichan
asked, when he was close enough to see that Kenji was there on the step right in front of him.

“Waiting for you,” he answered.

Kenji looked into the old man’s cloudy eyes. He loved the way the lines around them deepened and spread when his
ojiichan
smiled, his cheekbones rising like the sun. As a young man, he was once known as the best dancer in Hakodate, his
obaachan
told him, everyone watching his grandfather’s light, seamless moves at the Bon Odori during Obon.

“Well, your
ojiichan’s
home now,” he said, rubbing his close-cropped gray hair and putting his arm around Kenji’s slight and serious shoulders. “You could have come and fetched me,” he added.

Kenji shrugged.

“Uncle Taiko asked me to give you this.” His
ojiichan
held out his hand.

Kenji smiled and reached for the piece of rice candy in his grandfather’s palm, bowing quickly.
“Domo arigato gozaimasu,”
he said. “Please thank Uncle Taiko when you see him tomorrow.”

“Perhaps you’d like to come with me to the bar tomorrow and thank him yourself,” his
ojiichan
said.

Kenji nodded his head, his black hair falling into his eyes.
“Hai,”
he answered, popping the rice candy into his mouth before his
obaachan
found out.

He loved the weight of his
ojiichan’s
arm on his shoulders and the smell of his bittersweet pipe smoke. The rich, deep flavors that rose and curled up into the air made Kenji feel safe and at ease. Suddenly, the old man stepped back and danced a few unexpected circles around his grandson, extracting a wild, unrestrained burst of laughter from Kenji.

Every evening after dinner, despite the winter cold, Yoshio Wada went up to the watchtower to listen to his neighbor’s daughter practice her cello in the backyard next door. At sixteen, Mariko Yoshida had just been accepted into the Tokyo Conservatory of Music and was flourishing. The once quiet girl, who often babysat the boys when they were little, had found her calling. Before long, her music provided a soothing balm for the entire neighborhood. Yoshio lit his pipe and heard a door slide open like clockwork and close again, as she stepped out to the backyard carrying her cello.

Mariko began her practice with the same piece every evening, and once, when Yoshio asked her what the piece was and why she always began with it, Mariko grinned like a child and answered, “It’s Bach’s First Cello Suite. I always begin with it because it makes me realize why I play.” And before he could ask why that was, she added shyly, “It makes me feel as if I’m taking the first lovely breath of life.” He hadn’t really understood what she meant at the time, but the more he heard the piece, the more he began to comprehend the power of it, how the notes themselves moved in and out like breath. And how the closest thing he might have felt to it in his life was dancing at the Bon Odori.

Yoshio turned when he heard his grandsons’ heavy footsteps racing up the stairs to the watchtower. In the next moment, Hiroshi and Kenji filled the small, open deck with their exuberance, the planks beneath them vibrating. Mariko had just begun playing Bach’s Second Cello Suite, the one she had confided to him was “the saddest of all the suites.”

“Ojiichan, obaachan
wants you to come back down now,” Hiroshi said, the low crackle of his changing voice still startling to Yoshio. “She says it’s too cold for you to be standing up here.”

Yoshio felt another burst of winter air whistle through the tower. He knew Fumiko was right but he suddenly felt talkative. At twelve and ten, his grandsons were growing up and he wanted to keep them standing by his side, where he could still see the blurred shapes of their faces. “It feels like snow may come,” he answered. “Your
obaachan
loves it when it snows.”

“I hope it does,” Kenji said, leaning over the side to see if it could be true. “Then we might be excused from classes tomorrow.”

“I hope not,” Hiroshi quickly said. “I have practice tomorrow.”

Yoshio smiled. The increased food rationing due to the war effort hadn’t affected their spirits or energy levels yet. Hiroshi had always been a strong and solid boy, almost a head taller than Kenji, who had grown in the past year but still remained thin and awkward. No two brothers could have been more different from birth. He cleared his throat, not ready to go inside just yet. “Listen to Mariko play, how sad this piece is.” And then they stood silent, listening.

“Isn’t she cold?” Kenji asked.

Hiroshi elbowed his brother, who returned the nudge and was pushed into his grandfather.

Yoshio stepped in between his grandsons. “Did you know that it’s because of sumo that we’re all here today?” he asked. It was a story he had told them many times, ever since they were little boys. He’d repeated it every time he wanted to gain their attention. “That the fate of the Japanese people was determined by a wrestling match?”