The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (53 page)

Three days later, the crowd roared when Hiroshi entered the arena at the May Basho. When he stepped onto the
dohyo
, he felt an energy surge through his body as he knocked the first wrestler out of the ring within seconds of their initial contact. Hiroshi climbed over the great barrier one match at a time, losing only twice, and on the day of the final match, he stepped back, threw the salt into the air, and watched it scatter on the
dohyo
. With the first impact of his body against his opponent, he felt completely focused, knew he would have to move quickly and use all his strength to win the match. He clipped the wrestler’s shoulder, grabbed him under the armpit, and threw his weight backward, forcing him down to the
dohyo
before he knew what had happened to him. When the
gyoji
declared him the winner, Hiroshi knew that whatever barrier he had scaled, it had been accomplished in order to get to Aki on the other side. He raised his eyes to the audience, wondering if she was somewhere up there in the haze of lights, looking down at him as she had from her window.

With exams over and all the papers graded for Professor Ito’s class, Haru could finally relax. The next year would be her last, though she’d already made up her mind to return for graduate school. She looked forward to returning to Tokyo for the summer to see her father and Aki, but first she would stop at Hiratsuka for the afternoon to attend the Star Festival, called the Tanabata, which was held every July 7. Classmates had told Haru the festival was lively and colorful. When she stepped down from the train and walked to the center of town, huge Tanabata decorations lined the main street. Crowds of people pushed slowly ahead, admiring the long red, green, pink, and blue streamers that hung from bamboo branches along both sides. She was told the streamers represented the weaving of threads, based on the tale of the weaver princess named Orihime and a cow herder prince named Hikoboshi who lived happily within the universe. But they had angered the king by spending too much time together and not doing their jobs, so he banished them to separate sides of the Milky Way. They were only allowed to meet one day a year, on July 7. And it was a tradition to make wishes on the colorful streamers and hang them on the bamboo branches.

Haru had always loved the story, an ongoing romance floating through the universe. She felt sorry for the weaver princess and cow herder prince, relegated to meeting just once a year. When an older woman stopped her and handed Haru a piece of pink streamer for her to write a wish on, she held the lightness of the paper in her hand before she wrote down the name Hiroshi and slipped it into her pocket.

It began to snow just after the New Year. Even so, Hiroshi lingered in the courtyard after practice hoping for a glimpse of Aki. He was the first
sumotori
to reach the rank of
ozeki
since the occupation and in the light of a newly recovered Japan. He immediately captured the public’s imagination as the orphan who had risen from the ashes of the war to become a champion. He read it over and over again in newspaper and magazine articles, which Kenji and Mika would tease him about relentlessly. “Even the emperor isn’t as revered,” his brother added. Hiroshi smiled. He wondered if Aki felt that way about him.

In the four months since rising to the rank of
ozeki
, Hiroshi’s schedule had become impossible. Following practice in the mornings, there were interviews, appearances, and dinners that filled most of his afternoons and evenings. Wherever Ozeki Takanoyama went, fans mobbed him, sponsors courted him for his endorsements, and his photo graced the front pages of newspapers and magazines. He presided over New Year’s festivities and was photographed carrying one baby after another. A child held by a
sumotori
was good luck, sure to grow healthy and strong. A child held by a champion was even more auspicious. It was a world Hiroshi had only just begun to taste as an
ozeki
. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like if he were to reach the rank of
yokozuna
.

Hiroshi shivered in the cold and pulled his thin cotton
yukata
robe
tighter. He looked up at Aki’s shoji-covered window, closed against the sharp winds, and wondered where she was and if she had returned to Nara with her sister for a visit. He’d only fleetingly seen Haru during her holiday visit home the week before; he’d always been too busy with appearances. He was fortunate to have had one brief conversation with her when he saw her waiting in front of the stable.

“Haru-san.” He bowed, pleased to see her.

She bowed even lower. “Ozeki Takanoyama, I’m honored to see you,” she said formally, though she smiled up at him. “How does it feel to be a champion?” she asked.

He laughed. “How does it feel to be teaching?”

Haru smiled. Hiroshi thought she looked lovely in her quiet, careful way, a beauty so different from her sister’s. She was no longer self-conscious, but an intelligent young woman who was already teaching a class at Nara Women’s University. Rumors around the stable were that she would continue her education and study for her graduate degree.

“We’re both accomplishing our goals,” she said.

He wanted to say more, but the car sent to pick him up had arrived and he was already late for an interview. “We’ll speak more about this later,” he said and smiled. Hiroshi bowed quickly and stepped into the car. He turned to see Haru standing there, the hand she always hid from him raised in a wave.

Two days later, she left again for Nara before they had another chance to speak.

Hiroshi felt foolish standing out in the snow, which began to fall again in soft, almost translucent flakes. Aki had obviously given up waiting by the window for him. He rubbed his eyes as if awakening from a deep sleep. He was twenty-eight years old and had spent most of his young life in training. Hiroshi only realized now that all the control and strength that governed his mind and body had nothing to do with the power of his heart.

“Hiroshi-san?”

He turned to see Aki standing near the
sakura
tree planted where
she’d once fallen. She wore a heavy winter kimono the color of new leaves, and appeared out of nowhere like a beautiful spirit in one of Kenji’s Noh plays. He bowed. “Aki-san, what are you doing out in the cold?” He felt his blood race as warmth slowly spread throughout his body.

“I was hoping I might speak to you,” she said.

Hiroshi heard the quiver in her voice as she glanced down and then back up at him. A flicker of snow had fallen onto her cheek, melting when it touched her skin. He took a step toward her, buffered by the snow blanketing the world around them, and reached out to wipe away the falling tear.

Fumiko hadn’t expected visitors on such a cold, snowy day. She was in the kitchen making tea when she heard the muffled sound of the chimes and stepped into the
genkan
to see who was entering the front gate. It had stopped snowing and the world outside was a soft white blanket. Soundless. She was happy to see it was Hiro-chan entering, but stopped short when she saw someone was with him, a young woman. Fumiko stepped back in the
genkan
and watched them for a moment. The young woman was wearing a dark maroon winter kimono with her hair beautifully dressed. She walked slowly with Hiroshi, looking up and listening to him as he pointed toward the bench by the maple tree. Yoshio. He was telling her about his
ojiichan
. They paused for a moment and the young woman stopped and smiled at him. She held a wrapped gift in her hands.
Mochi
with red beans, she suspected, or petit fours, which also made a good first-acquaintance gift to her. When she turned, Fumiko was given a clear view of her face and saw why her grandson was taken with her; she was beautiful in a classical way, with porcelain skin and fine, delicate features, a young woman who might have stepped out of a woodcut from the Edo period. If Kenji’s Mika-san was outgoing, self-assured, and represented the modern world, Hiroshi’s young lady appeared more self-contained.

There were things Fumiko sensed immediately while watching them, the radiance of happiness, the small, intimate gestures, the faint air of not belonging in this time and place. Fumiko smiled and stepped down from the
genkan
to welcome them.

It was mid-April and the rains had finally paused. Kenji stopped sanding the mask he was working on and peered out the front window. People rushed down the alleyway, hurrying to get somewhere else before it began to rain again. A part of him wanted to step outside and be carried along with the wave of bodies, as if he were flowing down a river to a new destination. Kenji shook his head. He would never leave without Mika. He returned to the worktable and slowly began to sand the mask again.

He and Mika had been married for more than two years, and in early February, she began suffering from terrible morning sickness. Every day he returned at lunch to check on her, bringing biscuits or rice crackers and making her tea to settle her stomach. After more than a year of trying, Mika was finally pregnant. Kenji couldn’t get over the fact that he was going to be a father. Akira teased him about the silly smile he constantly had on his face, openmouthed, like an
O-tobide
mask. “Let’s hope the child takes after his mother,” his sensei said.

But their joy was short-lived when the doctor told them Mika wasn’t pregnant, that her symptoms might have been a result of her desire to have a child. He reassured them everything was fine and they should keep trying. But something had changed after the week they thought she was pregnant; the overwhelming elation had turned into an uncomfortable silence. Soon, Mika began to spend more time working at her father’s textile company. Kenji knew working made her happy and took her mind away from having a child, which was the best thing for now. He wondered if everyone had to try so hard.

Kenji heard the front door open and close. He stepped out from the back to see Hiroshi filling up his small shop. He was dressed in a formal dark blue silk kimono with silver clusters of a diamond-shaped pattern.

“I’ve come to see how the famous mask maker is doing,” Hiroshi said.

Kenji laughed. He was glad Hiroshi had come to spirit him away from his morose thoughts. “And what really brings the revered Ozeki Takanoyama to my humble shop?”

Hiroshi bowed. “I’ve come with some news.”

“Which is?” Kenji asked.

“I wanted you and
obaachan
to be the first to know about my engagement, before you heard of it on the radio, or read about it in the newspapers.”

“Aki-san?” He had met Aki a few times, once at his
obaachan’s
house, and later, while attending one of Hiroshi’s tournaments. She was very beautiful in a fragile, distant way, with eyes that watched everything around her. She spoke very little, as if she were fearful of saying something wrong. Mika thought she was lovely, simply young and shy, she said, talking him out of his cynicism.

Hiroshi smiled. “We hope to marry next year.”

Kenji paused too long and caught himself. “Well, it’s about time!” he said, and stepped up to hug his brother, something they rarely did. “This calls for a toast!” Kenji disappeared to the back room and returned with a bottle of whiskey.