Yoshio stood and moved his chair to catch the last slanting rays of sun. Hiroshi would be coming home in a few weeks, at the beginning of June. During his last visit, Yoshio had reached up and touched his face. “Let me see you,” he said. He raised his hand to gauge his grandson’s height and smiled when he felt the manly stubble on his cheek, the muscular arms and rock-solid girth. Hiroshi inhabited a body Yoshio no longer recognized. Then Hiroshi guided his grandfather’s hand to the slick topknot on his head.
“What do you see?” Hiroshi asked, a smile in his voice.
Yoshio was reminded of standing up in the watchtower with a young Hiroshi asking him the very same question. “I see a champion,” he answered.
During the past year, sumo competitions had been revived and matches were regularly broadcast on the radio again. Ecstatic, Yoshio tuned in religiously. The sumo tradition was one of the few surviving vestiges of old Japan that gave comfort throughout a difficult transition. Before and during the war, passion for sumo soared. Afterward, it was still held in such high regard that even the occupation forces came to know the sport, placing bets on tournaments, cheering their favorite wrestlers, especially Hiroshi, whose popularity was growing. Yoshio kept track of every step of his career. His grandson already had a reputation for quickness, for bringing an opponent down within seconds.
When he and Fumiko couldn’t go to the arena, it seemed the entire neighborhood gathered at their house, or at the bar, to listen to the match on the radio. “Hiroshi will be on soon,” or, “Did you go to see Hiroshi last time?” buzzed through the neighborhood. Yoshio heard and relished it all. This was when he felt the proudest. Sumo brought back hope. When Yoshio listened to a match, it was as if he could see again; the years that lined his face and clouded his eyes dropped away, and he was a young man once more, filled with joy and enthusiasm.
The sun on his face had shifted, filtering its warmth through the maple leaves, leaving cooler shadows in the courtyard. At last their daily life was returning to some kind of normalcy. He was alive and reasonably well. He didn’t dare tell Fumiko about the dizziness he sometimes felt when he stood up too quickly, or the pockets of forgetfulness that seemed to come more often. She had enough to worry about.
Yoshio turned when he heard the gate whine open slowly, followed by the soft click of its closing. He could tell it was Fumiko by the lightness of her steps.
“It’s a beautiful day,” he said.
He heard her pause. “How did you know it was me?” Fumiko asked, a smile in her voice.
“Do you think just because I can’t see that I don’t see?” he asked.
Fumiko laughed. “No, I don’t think you miss a thing, old man.”
He held his hand out and felt a slice of warm sunlight fall upon it as she approached.
The Departure
An unexpected summer storm blew all night, whipping rain against the side of the stable and sending sheets of water running off the roof and slapping onto the ground. Four-thirty always came too early, Hiroshi thought as he pushed himself up from his futon. He looked over at Fukuda, still asleep. His young friend seemed to become more lethargic each day, sloppy and slow during practice, barely trying. Lately, Hiroshi often saw Tanaka-oyakata simply shake his head and walk away without bothering to instruct Fukuda. To Hiroshi this was worse criticism than a barrage of angry words, for it meant that Tanaka was already letting Fukuda go.
And Daishima didn’t make it any easier with his constant ridicule. His gruff, booming voice shook the stable as he chastised Fukuda in front of the other rikishi. “Can’t you hear? I told you I wanted hot water!” Or, “You fool, I asked you to bring me the black yukata robe!” which sent Fukuda stumbling back upstairs as Daishima laughed. Hiroshi tried to anticipate all the sekitori’s needs before he asked. But even Hiroshi didn’t have an easy time of it. Daishima was huge, demanding, and mean-spirited. Always, the chanko was too salty or not salty enough, the water too hot or too cold. Even though he had reached the upper ranks, Daishima didn’t deserve such special treatment. His coaching methods were sadistic and always carried out at the expense of someone else when Tanaka-oyakata wasn’t around. If Hiroshi learned anything from Daishima, it was this: if he ever reached the sekitori rank, he would never abuse his position.
Hiroshi shook Fukuda awake. His young friend stirred but turned away from him in sleep. Hiroshi winced at the sight of the red welts across Fukuda’s shoulders and back, received at the end of yesterday’s practice. Daishima had called Fukuda up to take part in the butsukari-geiko, an exercise in which one wrestler charged another, attempting to push him out of the dohyo. The defender, Akori, tried to hold Fukuda back or throw him down. As the two young wrestlers repeatedly slammed into each other, Daishima watched, slapping a bamboo stick against the palm of his hand, his raspy voice continually demanding, “Again!” until both wrestlers were so exhausted, Fukuda could no longer stand.
“Get up!” Daishima yelled. “Get up, you fool! How will you ever become sumotori if you can’t stand on your feet?”
Fukuda lay on his side, breathing heavily.
“I said, get up!” Daishima slapped the bamboo stick against the ground next to Fukuda, and then kicked him in the thigh. “Get up, or I’ll beat you up!” he screamed.
Hiroshi watched, the blood rising to his head. It wasn’t his place to say or do anything. Daishima’s rank rendered him voiceless. Get up. Get up, he thought, willing Fukuda to rise from the dohyo.
The bamboo stick came crashing down on Fukuda’s shoulders and back, one hard thwack after another, until Daishima was winded, while Fukuda lay on the dohyo receiving each blow without a sound.
Despite the consequences, Hiroshi stepped forward and grabbed Daishima’s arm just as the bamboo stick was poised to strike Fukuda again.
“What?” Daishima turned and jerked away from Hiroshi’s grip. “You son of a bitch!” he roared, raising the bamboo stick toward Hiroshi.
“Stop it at once!” Tanaka-oyakata’s voice cut through the air. The rikishi stepped back as Tanaka grabbed Daishima’s hand and pushed him away. “Explain yourself!”
Daishima panted. “I had to teach this fool a lesson. A wrestler must always rise up and fight!”
Tanaka-oyakata stepped close to Daishima and hissed, “I want you to leave! Now!”
Daishima threw down the bamboo stick and pushed his way out of the crowd, while Tanaka motioned for Hiroshi to help Fukuda. Already, angry red ridges were rising across his back.
Hiroshi shook Fukuda harder. “Wake up,” he whispered, trying not to disturb the other wrestlers.
“I’m not getting up,” Fukuda mumbled.
Only then did Hiroshi realize he was pretending to be asleep. “Please hurry,” he urged.
Fukuda turned toward Hiroshi and opened his eyes. “I’m finished. I’m leaving the stable,” he said. “This isn’t the place for me.” He sighed as he said the words, as if he were suddenly freed of some great restraint.
Hiroshi forced a laugh. “What are you saying? You love sumo.”
Fukuda grimaced in pain as he raised himself onto his elbows. His large stomach rose and fell under the covers. “I’m no good at this, Hiroshi-san. What’s the point in staying any longer?”
Hiroshi paused. It was true, Fukuda wasn’t a natural sumotori, but he was only eighteen and there was still time to train and learn if he wanted it badly enough. In the past few months, he hadn’t really tried.
“Being a good sumotori means we have to practice every morning,” Hiroshi said, as if speaking to a child.
Fukuda shook his head sadly. “It wouldn’t make any difference.”
Hiroshi swallowed. Before his eyes, the boy Fukuda had become a man. “You’ve made up your mind?”
Fukuda nodded. “I’ll talk to Tanaka-oyakata this afternoon. I’ll finish out the week. I’m sure he’ll be grateful he doesn’t have to ask me to leave.” Then he added, “There was a reason he never gave me a shikona.”
Hiroshi’s f
ighting name, Takanoyama, provided him with a sense of who he was, and who he strived to become.
“What will you do?” he asked.
Fukuda smiled. “There’s my father’s farm, for now. Who knows, I may find something that I’m really good at. Better that, than to be less than mediocre at something else.” Fukuda rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.
Hiroshi grabbed Fukuda’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “But you made the past few years here bearable for me.”
“I distracted Daishima,” he said with a laugh. “Now, you’ll have to deal with him alone.”
“You’ve been a good friend.” Hiroshi smiled sadly.
“I was never meant to be sumotori, not like you, Hiroshi-san. I’ve seen the concentration and determination you have on the dohyo. It’s as if there’s no other world. You’re on your way to reaching the Sandanme Division, while I’d be lucky ever to make it to the Jonidan Division. And when you’ve risen to the rank of ozeki, champion, and yokozuna, grand champion status, I’ll always be your biggest fan.” Fukuda slapped his round belly. “As you can see.”
“You haven’t left yet,” Hiroshi said, trying to sound lighthearted. “If you expect me to reach the rank of yokozuna, I’ll still need your help.”
Fukuda smiled as Hiroshi pulled him from his futon. Together they had endured all the rigors of being the lowest-ranked sumotori, all in a cloud of constant exhaustion. It was a bond Hiroshi would never forget. Now that Fukuda was leaving, he would do everything in his power to make his last week at the stable more bearable.
But Fukuda’s last days as a sumotori were difficult ones. Daishima continued to ridicule him in front of all the other sumo. “So, where will you go if you can’t even collect towels and wash my back clean?” While some of the other rikishi laughed, Fukuda took all the condescending remarks in good humor. He picked up the towels left on the floor after practice and said nothing, merely smiled good-naturedly, while Hiroshi held back his anger and waited.
The day before Fukuda was to leave the stable, he was optimistic and eager to finish his daily chores quickly so he and Hiroshi could sit down to eat. As they swallowed the last of the chanko, and drank down several bottles of beer, Hiroshi leaned toward his friend and said, “I’m going to break a centuries-old tradition and give you your new shikona. You will now be known as Takanowaka, Noble Youth. Don’t ever let anyone make you think otherwise.”
14
The Challenge
1949
With Fukuda gone six months, Hiroshi missed his young friend’s company, his innocent exuberance that filled the hard, cold edges of stable life. His moment to strike back came during one morning practice when Tanaka-oyakata sent him into the dohyo with Daishima again. After watching the big, lumbering sumotori every day, Hiroshi knew all his moves, how he used his weight and strength against an opponent. Daishima, on the other hand, seemed too preoccupied with his own needs to have paid much attention to anyone else. While Hiroshi was still small by comparison, he had developed more muscle, strength, and speed over the years.
“Let’s see if Matsumoto-san has learned anything,” Daishima said to his small audience.
Tanaka-oyakata cleared his throat and clapped his hands. The other wrestlers gathered around the dohyo and formed a loose circle. Hiroshi took a deep breath and crouched down, his knuckles to the ground in the niramiai, the stare-down position. He looked hard into Daishima’s eyes and didn’t flinch when the big man grimaced at him. He’d won enough matches to detect what was behind the stare, and how much his opponent wanted to win. They stood up and went back to their sides, then returned for the start of the match. The room fell quiet. Everyone in the keikoba knew that this was something more than an ordinary practice. Hiroshi felt the air buzz, as if a bee were flying around the top of his head. Sweat dripped slowly down his forehead, a salty, sour tang in the air. As he crouched, he felt the muscles in his legs tense, ready to push him forward in an instant. He matched his breathing to Daishima’s, making eye contact as they first touched their fists to the ground and then charged at each other in one synchronized motion. The impact of Daishima’s initial strike was hard and violent as his upper body rammed Hiroshi in the chest. But Hiroshi was ready and held his ground. Daishima came at him again, using his bulk and strength to push him toward the edge of the dohyo. At the last moment, Hiroshi wrapped his arm around Daishima’s neck in a headlock, and forced him down hard onto the dohyo with an inside leg trip. It all happened so quickly, Hiroshi scarcely believed it had really taken place. His heart raced. For a moment, the only sounds in the room were the labored breaths of the fallen sekitori, the air humid with sweat and dank earth, and then something unexpected, an animal-like sound that emerged from Daishima, who remained on the ground. At the edge of the dohyo, the other wrestlers stood back and could barely conceal their subtle smirks and low whispering. Daishima supported his shoulder, obviously in pain, as he was helped up by Tanaka-oyakata.
Hiroshi bowed low as they passed.
Daishima glared at him and said in an even tone, “Don’t think what happened here will ever happen again. You were lucky, that’s all.” Then he turned and walked away, throwing his towel to the ground.
Hiroshi steadied himself. A sumotori must never dishonor the sport by showing his emotions. It was wrong to use sumo as a means of revenge, but he counted this practice win as a small exception. It was for Fukuda, and it meant more to him than any tournament match ever had, even defeating Kobayashi. He felt the blood pulse through his veins. Someone had to show Daishima that fortunes could turn, and if he had to dishonor the sport and himself this once to do it, then so be it. Hiroshi stepped out of the dohyo and felt Tanaka-oyakata’s gaze heavy upon him.
Respect
Sho Tanaka sat at his desk after a long day. As evening approached he rubbed the top of his head and sighed. At least Fukuda-san had had the sense to know that the life of a rikishi was not his destiny. When the boy came to his office six months ago, bowing low and asking permission to leave the Katsuyama-beya, Tanaka felt both relief and sadness. He had liked the young man from the start for his easy personality and youthful enthusiasm. But he had already planned to dismiss him at the end of the month. Tanaka had never found the right shikona to give Fukuda. What fighting name could he possibly give to a wrestler who didn’t want to fight?
To his request, Tanaka had replied, “I want you to know, Fukuda-san, that the rikishi life is not for everyone. Leaving Katsuyama-beya doesn’t mean you’ve failed, it just means that you’ll find your rightful place somewhere else.” His words sounded ordinary, mechanical, uninspiring.
Fukuda stared down at his feet.
Then Tanaka stood up, went around his desk, bowed low to Fukuda, and tried again. “I believe, Fukuda-san, there are many here who could take lessons in how to behave from you. We’ll certainly miss you.”
Fukuda bowed back. When he stood straight again, there were tears in his eyes.
Sho Tanaka never thought the words he had spoken to Fukuda on how to behave would apply to Hiroshi. What was Hiroshi thinking? Daishima would be out of the January honbasho because of his dislocated shoulder. It was a selfish move that would only hurt the stable now that its highest-ranked wrestler could not fight. Had he been mistaken about Hiroshi? Given him the wrong shikona, Noble Mountain? Sho stood up and shook his head, then closed the door to his office and made his way back down the stairs to his house across the courtyard. His daughters would be there, waiting for him to have dinner. He had always tried to protect his family, but as with the war and occupation, so many things were beyond his control. And it was no different with his rikishi. In less than a year, he had watched both Hiroshi and Fukuda lose their spirit of innocence. This was nothing he hadn’t seen before, yet it somehow saddened him. He looked up at the darkening sky. The snow had stopped, and the cold, fresh air revived him. Sho Tanaka breathed deeply, shook off the day’s events, and walked toward the glowing lights of his house.
Loss
r /> Almost a year after the accident, the mountain was thawing again in the April sunshine, but Akira still felt a phantom pain where his hand used to be. Kiyo helped him to split the wood now. It had taken months for his wound to heal, and for him to adjust to having only his right hand. The accident replayed repeatedly in his mind until it was simply a series of events; the sudden avalanche of mud and rocks that buried him under thick mire, his struggle for breath, his crushed hand, Kiyo’s scream, Emiko’s cries, the rush of footsteps and voices. They dug him out from under the mud, but his hand remained pinned. Shock numbed his body as he moved in and out of consciousness. There was no time to get a doctor from Oyama, so the quiet neighbor Kanuki-san, who made wood charcoal, took his axe and separated Akira’s hand from his arm just above his wrist. When they held him down to cauterize the bleeding stump with fire, the burned smell of his own charred flesh was the last thing he remembered.
Akira imagined it was like chopping a limb from a tree. He wondered if the bones of his hand were still wedged between the rocks, fused and fossilized. Even if his left hand hadn’t been amputated, it would have been crushed beyond use. His only luck was in being right-handed. Akira dwelled on this last thought; at forty, less and less of his body was of use to him.
After the accident, Akira stayed with Emiko and Kiyo in the main house, until he was strong enough to move to the barn. They’d gone down to the village to retrieve Nazo and his things during those early days when he was still feverish. For a long while, he did nothing but sleep, waking only to eat the pickled turnips and rice soup Emiko fed him and then sleep again. As he convalesced, Kiyo stayed at a distance, a shadow flickering in and out of his vision until he was strong enough to sit up and call for her. She sat silently by him, her face a troubled mask, her eyes darting back and forth to his bandaged stump until Akira pulled the blanket up and over it.