The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (46 page)

Fumiko stood up slowly, brushed the dirt from her kimono. She’d lost track of time as she worked in the garden. If she hurried, she could still make it to Ino-san’s to buy miso for Yoshio’s lunch. They’d become minor celebrities along the bustling streets and alleyways of Yanaka. “Tell Hiro-chan we know he’ll be the next champion!” storeowners and neighbors alike would yell out to Fumiko as she walked down the street. She smiled and bowed, both proud and honored by her grandson’s accomplishments.

Fumiko weaved down the crowded alleyways, voices coming from every direction, women carrying baskets filled with fruit and vegetables. Stores once again had merchandise on their shelves, as the smell of dried fish and fresh
sembei
rice crackers wafted through the air. Fumiko paused when she came to the storefront that used to be Ayako’s bakery. In old times, she would be visiting her friend, stopping in for a cup of green tea and the latest news. Fumiko glanced in the window. A bakery again, with lovely smells drifting through the air. The door opened and closed, a warm fragrant air embracing her, but she couldn’t bring herself to step inside. So many years gone, and Ayako-san’s absence still felt like a raw wound, a throbbing just under her skin. She would never get over the loss. Having so many innocent people simply disappear would always be the cruelest aspect of the war for her.

She looked around the busy street. Remnants of the war and the suffering were slowly disappearing. Still, she couldn’t imagine how anyone who lived through it would ever be able to forget. In her heart, Fumiko hoped the war and devastation would never be forgotten, so that future generations would learn from the futility of it all.

As Kenji guided the chisel across the wood, he saw the contours of a face take shape, each defining feature slowly emerge from the depths of the wood. He carefully hollowed out the eyes to the
O-akujo
demon mask. Soon he would fill the sockets with brass eyes, flare the nostrils, and paint the teeth a gleaming gold. In the dark theater, it would frighten and mesmerize. In the quiet of his shop, each mask made Kenji feel more alive in the world, the ground at last solid where he stood. Could the boy ghost have finally materialized into a man? He smiled to think so, his gaze moving toward the empty doorway.

His thoughts turned from the masks to Mika. The events of the past few months were like miracles to him. He woke up every morning hoping it wasn’t all a dream—Mika Abe knocking on his door, saving him from the
kasutori shochu
, which he might easily have come to depend on. Unlike those restless, lost souls who replaced art with alcohol, the sharp, burning warmth that flowed down his throat gave him courage and made him forget his loneliness, his fear of failure. Kenji heard again his
obaachan’s
constant worries. He was too thin, his hair longer than she liked. He tied it back like those artists did. He needed to get out more. She always said he looked like one of those displaced young people of the
kasutori
culture. But Mika had roused him from his stupor, made him get up, open the door, and let her in.

“I decided it was time to visit your shop,” she had said, her voice calm, matter-of-fact.

He remembered squinting to see the perfect lines of her face. His head pulsated with a dull pain. All she had to do was look at him to see he was hungover, his thoughts scrambled. Had Mika been at the bar? He wanted to ask what made her decide to visit him that morning. But Kenji felt as if his head would explode. Instead of answering, he leaned against the table and struggled not to close his eyes against the glare of the sunlight. What if he opened them again and she was gone? He nodded his head without saying a word.

Since November, Kenji had been seeing Mika Abe steadily for six months. He had gladly traded the
kasutori shochu
for her. And apparently she was more interested in him than the dark bars and strong
liquor. Now it was her touch that spread warmth throughout his body, thawing every last fear.

Kenji heard the front door open and close but took his time in the back room, making the last few strokes of the large chisel before he moved to a smaller one for the more intricate details. He didn’t expect Mika until late afternoon. When Kenji stepped into the outer room, he saw a man examining one of his masks on the shelf, his back to Kenji. He was dressed in an expensive silk kimono with a white diamond pattern, which seemed faintly familiar.

“Konnichiwa,”
Kenji said.

It wasn’t until the man turned around that Kenji recognized it was Otomo Matsui standing before him. He’d aged in the past ten years, his hair all gray now, which gave the great Noh actor an even more distinguished presence.

Kenji bowed low. “Matsui-sama, I had no idea it was you. I’m honored to have you in my shop.”

Matsui smiled, still holding the
Okina
mask in his hand. “I’ve heard of your workmanship. Many say it has all the earmarks of a Yoshiwara mask.”

He bowed again. “I would be honored to be half as good as Yoshiwara-sensei.”

Matsui held up the
Okina
mask. “It seems I have the proof right in my hands. I also recall that we’ve met before.”

“Hai,”
he said. “Almost ten years ago. I attended a performance with Yoshiwara-sensei.”

Matsui nodded. “Backstage. You were the boy with Akira-san.”

“Hai.”

“Akira said then you’d be the next great mask maker. It seems he was right.” Matsui placed the mask back on the shelf. “I’ve come to see if you’d like to make a mask for me?”

“You honor me, Matsui-sama.” Kenji bowed. “It would be my greatest honor to have you wear one of my masks.”

Matsui smiled. He placed a package on the table. “I’ll leave an old mask with you for measurements. It was one of Yoshiwara’s best. I’ll need a
Warai-jo
mask. It’s sad but fitting that I should play an old man now. I’ll send someone to pick it up at the end of the month.”

Kenji bowed. “It will be waiting.”

The actor turned to leave, his movements still fluid and elegant. It was Kenji’s last chance to ask Matsui about his sensei.

“Matsui-sama, may I ask if you’ve heard anything about Yoshiwara-sensei?”

Matsui turned back. “I’m afraid your sensei has disappeared into thin air. Perhaps he’s dead like so many others. And if he isn’t, no one will find Akira unless he wants to be found.”

Otomo Matsui smiled sadly, bowed his head, and turned to leave. Even as the door opened and closed behind the great actor, Kenji stood wishing for more.

At sixteen, Aki was restless and unable to concentrate on anything for long, including her studies. Unlike Haru, who loved Nara Women’s University, she had no interest in pursuing such dry ambitions. In her mind, life was too short to sit in classrooms, laboring over words and numbers in books. She preferred to live the experiences herself, not just read about them. She flipped her schoolbook closed, the quick thud making her smile.

Since their mother’s death, it was Haru who had assumed most of the household responsibilities of the
okamisan
, the stable master’s wife, from the day-to-day details of running the stable to helping with the accounts. Sometimes, Aki hated how easily it all came to her sister, how organized and efficient she was. She knew her father was grateful to have Haru do so much. But now, with her sister away at school, the household responsibilities fell to her. With Seiko-san, their housekeeper, finally gone, there was just their cook, Sunikosan, who came daily to prepare their meals, while Aki was responsible for keeping the house in order. More often than not, she knew, her housekeeping skills were a disappointment.

Aki leaned back, opened her desk drawer, and pulled out the photo of her mother dressed as a young
maiko
that she’d found in the trunk. Her mother looked beautiful. She wasn’t much older than
Aki, though she appeared considerably more elegant. She fingered the bright red collar of her mother’s vibrant silk kimono, the bold white peonies on the red background, the long scroll sleeves that hung almost to the ground. The black obi was tied higher than usual, reaching up under her arms. She looked just a little off balance, standing tall on wooden sandals and smiling shyly. It was Aki’s favorite photo of her mother, who appeared both fragile and strong in it. Aki stared at her own face in the mirror. She looked older, her face was slimmer, her eyes deeper. It reminded her of a story her mother used to tell her and Haru when they were little girls. “The Mirror of Matsuyama” had been one of her favorites.
“Okasan
, tell it again, tell it again!” she often pleaded. She remembered how her mother’s thin, arched eyebrows rose in flight. They reminded her of two wings that rose when she was exasperated or amused.

Then her mother would smile and Aki knew she would hear the story again, the soothing wave of her mother’s voice rolling over her.

“A long, long time ago, in a very remote part of Japan, there lived a husband and wife, who had a little girl whom they loved very much. When the little girl’s father went away on business, he promised to bring her back a present if she were good and dutiful to her mother.”

Aki’s mother had paused and looked at them, a smile in her eyes, like the two of you, she said, without saying.

“When her father returned, he brought his little daughter a beautiful doll and a lacquer box of cakes. He gave his wife a metal mirror, a design of pine trees and storks etched on the back. The little girl and her mother had never seen a mirror before.”

Her mother always paused while telling the story to remind them that they lived way out in the countryside, where there were few luxuries.

“When the little girl’s mother looked into the mirror, she saw another woman staring back at her. She gazed with growing wonder until her husband explained the mystery—she was looking at herself. Not long after, the little girl’s mother became very ill. Just before she died, she told her little daughter to take good care of her father. Then she gave the little girl her mirror, telling her to look at it whenever she felt most lonely, and she would always see her there
.

“In due time, her father married again, and her stepmother wasn’t very kind to the little girl. Remembering her mother’s words, she took to hiding in the corner and gazing into the mirror, where she saw her dear mother’s face, not drawn in pain as it was before she died, but young and beautiful again
.

“When the stepmother found her crouching in the corner looking at something and murmuring to herself, she ignorantly thought the little girl was performing some evil spell against her. The stepmother went to the little girl’s father and told him of her wickedness. When her father confronted his daughter with the tale, he took her by such surprise that she slipped the mirror into her sleeve. For the first time, he grew angry with her, and feared there was some truth to his wife’s story
.

“When his daughter heard the unjust accusation, she was so hurt by her father’s words it was as if he had slapped her. She told him she loved him too much to ever kill his wife knowing that she was dear to him
.

“ ‘What have you hidden in your sleeve?’ said her father, still not convinced
.

“ ‘The mirror you gave my mother, which she gave to me before she died. Every time I look into its shining surface, I see the face of my dear mother, young and beautiful again. When my heart aches, it helps me to bear the harsh words and cross looks by seeing my mother’s sweet, kind smile.’

“Only then did her father understand that it was her own face she was gazing at, thinking it was her mother’s. He loved his daughter even more for her filial piety. Even the girl’s stepmother was ashamed and asked forgiveness. And the little girl, who believed she had seen her mother’s face in the mirror, forgave her stepmother, and trouble departed from their house forever.”

Aki looked closely at her mother’s youthful face in the photo, and then gazed into the mirror to scrutinize her own reflection. She saw similarities in the oval shape of the face, the curve of her lips, and especially in the black pearl eyes. She leaned back. From a distance, there might be confusion, a young Noriko returned to the living. Aki imagined herself in the photo and tried to remember the light, graceful steps of the
Tachikata
, the traditional Japanese dance her mother had learned as a young apprentice geisha and taught her as a little girl.