The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (50 page)

Hiroshi walked down the
hanamichi
aisle and looked up to where he knew his
obaachan
, Kenji, and Mika were sitting. He couldn’t see beyond the glaring lights, but he knew they were there. He only wished his
ojiichan
were with them. When his name, Takanoyama, was called out, the audience roared as he stepped onto the
dohyo
for the first time in a year. The clay felt comforting against the battered soles of his feet. Hiroshi was nervous and his knee felt stiff as he moved through the opening rituals, a tight knot resisting every move
he made. Slowly, it began to loosen with each leg lift and every squat. He suddenly felt in control of his body again.
“Matta nashi,”
the referee called out.
It’s time
. The words rang through Hiroshi’s head like a chant.
It’s time to fight
, he thought. It’s time to win this tournament for his grandfather. It’s time to rise up in the ranks and step toward his destiny.
It’s time
. His stare locked onto the eyes of his opponent, while all the noise seeped away except for the beating of his own heart. When his body sprang forward and slammed into his opponent, he felt all the pent-up fear and energy of the past year take over.

Their marriage was to be without fanfare, a simple civil ceremony. It was what he and Mika wanted, even though his
obaachan
and Mika’s parents were unhappy about it. Kenji wasn’t interested in all the complicated wedding rituals. Theirs was a marriage of love, not defined or determined by a matchmaker and outdated customs.

“Wasn’t it the same for you and
ojiichan?”
he asked his grandmother.

His
obaachan
watched him for a moment. “We still waited and had a customary
yunio
. You of the younger generation might think it’s all nonsense, but an engagement ceremony with all the traditional gifts is a centuries-old tradition. Why do you and Mika-san think it should be broken now?” She poured him a cup of green tea at the low dining room table.

“Mika and I don’t need those things to know we’ll have a good marriage,” he said carefully.

“There’s nothing wrong with tradition,” his grandmother said, so softly that he couldn’t help feeling bad. Her gaze moved toward the reception room where the photos of his parents and grandfather sat on the
tokonoma
.

“No,” he said, trying to soothe her. “There isn’t. There’ll be more than enough for you to do when Hiroshi marries. The great Sekiwake Takanoyama’s wedding will be a public event,” he added. His
brother’s successful comeback had made him an even more beloved
sumotori
than he already was.

“But Hiroshi’s wedding isn’t yours,” his grandmother said. “It isn’t so simple. The rituals are a symbol of your commitment. You act as if they’ll steal something away instead of adding to your life together.”

His grandmother’s gaze fell upon him. He could almost feel it burning into his skin. “Mika and I prefer to have a modern marriage,” was his only answer.

His
obaachan
sipped her tea and didn’t say another word.

Life
was
never simple. Kenji knew his was filled with contradictions. Wasn’t mask making for the Noh theater one of the most traditional Japanese art forms? He wasn’t deferring to Hiroshi or his grandmother as he might have when they were young; he just preferred to live his life as quietly and inconspicuously as he could. Marriage was between Mika and him, and he knew his grandmother would be speechless if she found out Mika was the one who had proposed to him.

They were returning from a Noh performance of
Aoi no Uye
, about the demon of jealousy tormenting Princess Rokujo. Kenji had been given his first big commission to make several of the masks, including the
Hannya
, the demon mask. Mika had worn a kimono that evening, orange-red with a beige wave pattern made of silk material from her father’s textile company. Afterward, they were walking back along the Ginza in Tokyo when Mika paused.

“Is something wrong?” he had asked.

She had looked him directly in the eyes. “Kenji-san, will you marry me?”

He thought she was joking at first, teasing him out of his seriousness. “Hai, tomorrow,” he answered, joking back—until something in the way she looked at him told him otherwise.
“Hai,”
he said again, without a moment’s hesitation. He felt the heat rise to his face.

Mika reached for his hand and didn’t let go all the way back to Yanaka.

His
obaachan
did insist on Mika respecting the tea-pouring ceremony in both households, and she gave Mika all the traditional gifts wrapped in rice paper—the dried cuttlefish, the
konbu
, or kelp for child-bearing, the long linen thread to symbolize their old age together, and the folded fan to represent growth and future wealth.

Hiroshi entered his
obaachan
’s courtyard, the chimes setting off the familiar ringing from his childhood. So often, he had entered to see his
ojiichan
sitting by the maple tree, his head tilted to the side, seeing through each sound. His grandfather always knew who stepped in. The memory made Hiroshi smile and a sudden longing rose up inside of him. His
ojiichan
’s presence wrapped around him.

Hiroshi knew his grandfather would be proud. He’d won twenty-seven out of the thirty bouts he fought during his last two
bashos
, regaining his
sekiwake
rank. He once more stood to be promoted to the rank of
ozeki
champion. Every night during a
basho
, Sadao brought him ice to wrap around his knee, hoping it would keep any pain subdued until the tournament was over. His injury was a constant reminder of his vulnerability, of how each small step could trip a person.

He looked up when he heard his grandmother move carefully down the steps of the
genkan
to greet him.

“Hiro-chan, I was just thinking about you,” she said, smiling.

Hiroshi watched his
obaachan
, who had become so thin and fragile since his
ojiichan
passed away. The bigger and stronger he grew, the
smaller she appeared. Hiroshi instantly wanted to protect her, to recapture all the years he had been away training.

He and Kenji saw her more often since his grandfather’s death. They worried about her being alone. But she adamantly refused to live with Kenji and Mika, who had moved to a small house near his mask shop, while Kenji’s partner and sensei, Yoshiwara-san, lived in the rooms above the shop. “This is where I will always live,” his
obaachan
told him, her voice sharp and definite. He knew better than to ask again.

“I thought you might like some company,” he said, bowing low and then giving his grandmother a hug. She used to pull away quickly, excited with questions about the stable or upcoming tournaments. Now, she remained as light as a feather in his arms.

When his grandmother finally pulled away, she stepped back and watched him closely. “It’s about time you spent your free afternoons with someone younger than your old grandmother.”

“I can’t find anyone more beautiful,” he teased.

She shook her head. “You haven’t even tried.”

Hiroshi laughed. He wanted to tell his grandmother there was someone, someone he’d known since she was a little girl, who was still young, seventeen, almost nine years younger than he was, and his
oyakata’s
daughter. Instead he said, “When I find the right woman, I promise you’ll be the first to know. There’ll be time enough after the Aki Basho.”

But just saying her name made him pull at the collar of his kimono and wonder what she was doing at that moment. Hiroshi couldn’t say when it began, this distant courtship between Aki and him, perhaps the day a few years ago when he looked up at her window and glimpsed her peering down at him, half-hidden behind the shoji screen that covered her window. She stood motionless, with a flicker of innocence that only came with youth, a restlessness that was inherent, so different from her sister, Haru. He only wore a
mawashi
belt and felt naked. A noise, a dog barking, made him turn away. When he glanced back, Aki was gone.

At first, Hiroshi thought it nothing more than a coincidence, but in the days that followed, he felt her lingering presence at the window
when he walked through the courtyard. Then again, her gaze was a constant shadow when he exercised his injured knee. He was always careful not to look up, not to frighten her away. Only a quick glance, a fleeting look—the skip of his heart—a momentary connection before it was broken like a string pulled taut and cut. Then she was gone, the black-pearl eyes and soft white of her cheek disappearing behind the shoji window. Over the months it became a dance, and he was reminded of his grandparents dancing at the Bon Odori, moving slowly around and around the circle, taking cautious, measured steps toward each other.

Aki was in her last year of high school and Hiroshi feared she might go away to study at a university like Haru. If so, she might be lost to him forever. Most evenings he stared up at her room, a light shimmering in the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, the faint outline of her shadow. If not, he restlessly wandered from one teahouse to the next pursuing other shadows.

“Something tells me you’ve already found the right woman.” His
obaachan’s
voice brought him back.

She was smiling, that knowing glance he’d seen ever since he was a little boy. He almost expected her to touch his cheek and tell him to go outside and play.

“How is it that you know so much?” he asked.

“Ever since you were a boy, Hiro-chan, I could understand you better by the expressions on your face than the words you spoke.” She laughed. “Don’t you think every face tells its own story?”

“Like a book?”

“More like a poem. If you study it long enough, you’ll soon find its meaning.”

He was always surprised by his
obaachan’s
ability to see through all of them, especially his
ojiichan
. Hiroshi followed his wiry grandmother into the house. He was mistaken. She was still as strong as she always was.