The Bird’s Beak
While Nazo dozed, sprawled out on the table beside him in the drafty barn, Akira finished the Okina mask with paints Tomita-san had brought back for him from Oyama. He’d meant to finish it before the accident, and was now more determined than ever to resume his life as a mask maker. The quality of the paints was poor but would have to do. Working one-handed made everything take longer, from mixing pigments to painting the exact curve of an eyebrow, but nothing could exceed the joy he felt painting a mask again, the gratification of completing it. Akira was so involved that he didn’t hear the knocking on the barn door until it grew louder and more persistent, and he finally called out, “Hairu,” come in. As the door creaked open, he expected Kiyo returning from school.
At fourteen, Kiyo was growing up, spending more time with her friends down in the village. Still, there were afternoons when she came home early and walked with Akira high into the mountains, where the cool March air felt like breathing ice. They avoided the path that led to the rocks where Akira had had his accident. He would never be able to convince her it wasn’t her fault. For months afterward, she had watched his recuperation from a distance. Even now, her eyes brimmed with tears when she looked at his arm and she grew quiet, while he spoke, filling the air with more words than he’d ever uttered in all his years in Tokyo.
Akira tried to imagine what his life might be like in Tokyo, occupied for the past five years by American forces. He heard some scant news on the radio when he went down to the village, and now and then he read a newspaper brought back by Tomita-san, who made trips down to Oyama for supplies. Tokyo seemed a world away.
When he and Kiyo reached the top of the path, they hiked up through the sweet, scented pines to the rocks and sat on a ridge that jutted out and curved down at the end, which Kiyo had named the Bird’s Beak. From there, they looked out over the valley, down at the peaked roofs poking through the trees, thin wisps of smoke floating into the air. Then it was his turn to be silent while Kiyo told him about her day, her voice wrapping around him like a blanket.
“You’re early,” Akira said now. He was so sure it was Kiyo at the door of the barn that he didn’t stop painting.
“Sumimasen, Akira-san. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
He looked up to see Emiko standing just inside the door. “Emiko-san,” he said, putting down the paintbrush and bowing. “Please come in.” In the almost two years he’d been living in the barn, she’d entered only a few times.
Emiko stepped forward as if pushed by the sunlight that gleamed in her hair. She stopped and bowed. Fine lines around her mouth creased in a tentative smile. “Akira-san, Kiyo-chan and I would be honored if you came to dinner this evening.”
She stood straight and rigid as her gaze darted around the barn and he wondered what she saw, his makeshift living quarters in the corner, surrounded by rusty metal tubs, shovels, and hoes, the battered table and oil lantern where he worked, the otherwise dingy light that made everything appear tired and discarded. Nazo lifted his head and lay back down again.
It was such a formal invitation, Akira asked, “Is it a special occasion?”
Emiko smiled again and shook her head. “It’s just an opportunity for us to have dinner together.”
“Hai.” He smiled back. “I would be honored.” He saw her face lighten at his acceptance as her body wavered and relaxed.
“We’ll expect you at six, then,” Emiko said, and bowed. She turned to leave and walked back out into the sunlight, closing the door behind her.
By the time Kiyo arrived at the barn, it was too late for a hike up the mountain. Instead, Akira cleaned up before he walked up to the house. Kiyo ushered him in and they sat by the hearth and talked and laughed with Emiko as she cooked sukiyaki. They watched as the broth with carrots and turnips bubbled and sputtered when she dropped in the thin slices of chicken, cabbage, and rice noodles. Akira couldn’t remember when he had last eaten so well. Afterward, Kiyo entertained them with a poetry reading, and when he rose to leave, it was not without a trace of regret.
“Domo arigato, Emiko-san, it was a wonderful dinner. I don’t know how to repay your kindness.”
Emiko blushed. “It’s so little, compared to all you’ve done for us.”
Akira bowed. “I’ve done little. I’m a very lucky man.”
Emiko blushed again and bowed.
In half sleep, Akira heard the barn door creak open and he sat up as footsteps, slow and hesitant, approached his cot in the corner of the barn. He reached down for his axe, heavy and solid in his hand. As the footsteps grew closer, he clutched the axe handle tighter then took a breath. “Who’s there?” he demanded. The footsteps stopped in the darkness.
“It’s me, Akira-san,” Emiko’s voice answered.
“Emiko-san? Is everything all right? Is it Kiyo-chan?” He put down the axe and struck a match. The sudden glow of his oil lamp startled them both, as their shadows jumped on walls.
“Kiyo is fine. She’s asleep. We’re fine,” she added. She stood where she stopped, wrapping her trembling arms around her dark cotton kimono. Her long hair fell over her shoulders. “I need to speak to you.”
With her hair down, she looked younger, slender and vulnerable in the wavering light. For the first time, he saw something of Kiyo in her eyes, and around her mouth. Until then, he had imagined Kiyo resembled her father, whose legacy lived in his young widow, his inquisitive daughter, this mountain house. Akira stood up and gently guided Emiko to his cot, wrapping a blanket around her before he sat beside her.
“What is so important that it can’t wait until morning?” he asked in a whisper.
“Please forgive me, but I wanted to speak about…about us.” Emiko avoided his eyes but kept talking. “I’ve been alone for a very long time …”
Akira swallowed and looked away. He always feared it might come to this. And why not? Emiko was a desirable woman who deserved a good man to take care of her and Kiyo. “Emiko,” he whispered. But she was already leaning toward him, her lips finding his. For a moment, he allowed himself to be kissed and to kiss her back, tasting a sweet softness he longed for himself. He did love her and Kiyo as much as he could, and wished it were enough. But when he felt Emiko’s hand caress the back of his neck, he pulled away from her and stood. “I can’t,” he said, “I’m sorry.”
Emiko stood, too, pulling her kimono tight. He saw pain and embarrassment flicker across her face, aging her again. She bowed and hurried toward the barn door. Akira watched her shadow hurry ahead of her and wanted to call her back but didn’t.
The Apprentice
After attending to Daishima and acquiescing to all the higher-ranked wrestlers for five long years, Hiroshi was now one himself. Sadao, his apprentice, was one of three new rikishi at the stable. He appeared young and hardworking, but, unlike Fukuda, who was open and playful, Sadao remained closed and guarded. For the first time in his life Hiroshi also had a room of his own. It was small but quiet. He gazed out the window to the courtyard below, relishing the thought of no longer sleeping in the same dormitory-style room with the other rikishi. He would have to reacquaint himself with the idea of privacy and the luxury of sleeping in late again.
Tanaka-oyakata now maintained two sekitori-ranked wrestlers at the stable, though Daishima had recently slipped down one rank to komusubi, while Hiroshi rose to the Juryo Division. They had remained at a polite distance after Hiroshi defeated him during the practice session almost two years ago. But at thirty-three, Daishima had to entertain thoughts of retirement rather than falling out of the sekitori division and risking dishonor for both himself and the stable.
“Sumimasen, Sekitori Takanoyama.” Sadao’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“Hai.” Hiroshi turned from the window to see his young attendant standing at the doorway of his room carrying a wrapped package.
Sadao bowed low to him. “Excuse me, Sekitori Takanoyama, your bath is ready. Also, Tanaka-oyakata asked that I bring this to you.” He
bowed again and put the package on top of Hiroshi’s akeni, the bamboo trunk in which he stored his personal belongings. On tournament days, it would be Sadao’s job to transport it to the stadium.
“Thank you, Sadao. What is it?” Hiroshi unwrapped the package and was surprised to see an ankle-length maroon kesho-mawashi, the handmade silk ceremonial apron embroidered with white and gold and worn around the front of his waist to participate in the dohyo-iri, the ring-entering ceremony.
“Please tell Oyakata-sama that I’ve received the package.”
“Hai.” Sadao bowed.
Hiroshi watched the boy leave the room, light and sure-footed. His fingers followed the intricate chrysanthemum pattern on the ceremonial apron. It was well made and costly, far more elaborate than any ceremonial apron he’d worn before. It was all part of the pageantry of sumo. His heart jumped to think how intricately the sport of sumo was tied to his life and his country. Despite Japan’s defeat, sumo retained its history and honor, a tradition that the Japanese people could still cherish. It was a tradition given to very few men, and one Hiroshi felt privileged to serve.
After practice the next day, Hiroshi bathed himself on the low stool, rinsing off with bucketfuls of warm water. His arms and legs were heavily muscled now, his stomach solid. He had grown in size and strength but tried to keep his weight down. He slapped the towel against his back and waited for Sadao to return and scrub it. The boy wasn’t sixteen yet, and already quick and attentive. But something about him made Hiroshi think he was younger, his thin, still-boyish face, the dark, inquisitive eyes that darted everywhere; a rare laugh still tinged with innocence. Hiroshi knew that his young attendant, like himself, was an orphan, his parents having died in the 1945 firestorm. And while Hiroshi was raised by his grandparents, he heard Sadao had grown up on the streets, where he had acquired the hard edge needed to survive. Hiroshi tried to get him to talk more. “And where did you live after the firestorm?” he asked, as the boy stood behind him and scrubbed his back. Unlike Daishima, who was either silent or belligerent, Hiroshi was curious to know more about the young attendant he would need to depend on.
Sadao paused for a long time. “I lived with friends,” he said.
Hiroshi turned around and eyed the boy closely. He had the right body for wrestling, big-boned and sturdy, but he would need to grow taller, put on more weight in the coming years, and strengthen his leg muscles. But unlike Fukuda, he trained hard and wasn’t easily distracted.
Sadao poured another bucket of warm water down his back. “Excuse me, Sekitori Takanoyama,” he said, “I need to check if the water in the ofuro is hot enough. I’ll return to wash your hair.”
Hiroshi nodded. For now, the boy’s story would remain untold.
The Graduate
Nakamura Hall at Tokyo University was filled with the families of graduating architecture and design students. The buzz of excited voices cut through the hot, still July afternoon. Kenji was seated onstage with his graduating class as he looked out among the packed audience. He wondered if Mika Abe might be in another hall on campus at the same moment, graduating with the other art students. He glanced about for his family, worried that it might be too hot for his grandparents. He’d seen them shortly after they arrived and the happiness on their faces seemed to erase all the difficulties of the past years. Standing next to them, Hiroshi looked like a warrior from the past. But when the commencement ceremony began, Kenji relaxed, knowing his brother was taking good care of them.
After the graduation ceremonies, Hiroshi celebrated by taking them to dinner at the Katana restaurant. The alleyways were alive again with small shops and restaurants reopening. After so many years of struggle, Kenji could feel his grandparents’ excitement at being at the Katana again. Before the war, they had eaten there once a month. It was a small, comfortable family-run restaurant that Kenji chose above all the other newly opened ones. He watched his obaachan touch her teacup, her bowl, and the wooden chopsticks as if she were afraid they might disappear. Hiroshi stood and raised a toast. “To my college-educated brother, the scholar!”
Kenji studied Hiroshi’s face, strong yet always forgiving. There were traces of their father in his brother’s face; a strength and determination Kenji knew was tempered by his innate integrity. Hiroshi was quickly climbing the ranks in sumo, and his next big tournament would be at the new Kokugikan sumo stadium built in Kuramae.
Their arms were already lifted in a toast, when Kenji stood before he lost his nerve. He bowed formally to his grandparents. “Ojiichan, obaachan, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” he began. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I can’t … I don’t wish to be an architect. Now that I’ve graduated, I hope to continue learning to be a mask artisan.”
The only halfhearted argument he could make about returning to the masks was that the preperformance censorship implemented by the government during the war had been lifted from traditional theater. Actors would need masks again, and perhaps one day he’d make a mask that would be worn by the famous actor Otomo Matsui, just as Akira Yoshiwara had. Maybe Matsui would even know something about the whereabouts of his sensei. He would keep quiet and wait. In his moment of uncertainty, a thought rushed through Kenji. If I were still Kenji the ghost, I would simply disappear.
His ojiichan lowered his sake cup soundlessly to the table and spoke softly, thoughtfully. “There are many ways in which to rebuild a nation,” he said.
“There are many different kinds of scholars,” his obaachan added, for which he was grateful.
“Hai.” His grandfather nodded. “It’s what you’ve always wanted. We live a short enough time on this earth. A man should do what he loves.”
Kenji swallowed. His heart raced with happiness.
His obaachan smiled, raising her sake cup again. “Hai, your ojiichan speaks the truth,” she said.
“And when have I not spoken the truth?” his ojiichan teased.
“When have you not spoken?” His obaachan rolled her eyes and made them all laugh.
Kenji drank down the sake and felt the warmth spread throughout his body.
Leaving
Haru was all packed. There was still a little time before she left for the train station. She stopped to look around the room and catch her breath. Weeks had led up to this moment in late September, but the reality of leaving had struck her only during the past week. Eight months earlier, when she received the letter from Nara Women’s University, she had carried it with her for days without telling her father or Aki. It surprised her like an unexpected gift. Not that there’d been any reason, since her grades were good and her test scores high; still, Haru wanted to enjoy the feeling a little longer before she shared it with anyone else.
At seventeen, Haru could have just as easily been preparing for her marriage ceremony as going off to study at a university. She knew girls in her class who wanted nothing more than families of their own. But her father embraced Haru when she told him, smiling widely. “It’s what you hoped for,” he said, before letting go.
It took Aki more time to adjust to the idea that she’d be gone. Hesitating, Haru had questioned if she should go to Nara. She’d become both mother and sister to Aki since the firestorm, and she wavered at the idea of leaving her sister alone, dangling. But after a week, Aki had accepted her leaving and seemed happy again. She even spoke of visiting Haru in Nara. At fourteen, her sister was already a classic beauty, fair-skinned and delicate, resembling their mother more with each passing day.
Haru stopped packing, and glanced quickly at herself in the mirror. With her hair pulled back, she was darker complexioned and sharper featured than Aki, though she saw hints of her mother in the high bridge of her nose and around the mouth. She was dressed in her traveling kimono, a fine weave of silk embroidered with blue irises, an expensive gift her father insisted on buying for her. She looked older in the exquisite kimono. It was almost as if someone else were looking back at her in the mirror. She wondered what others saw when they
looked at her. Just yesterday, she’d seen Hiroshi-san. She met him by surprise on her way home from picking up some last-minute daikon at the small shop down the road.
“Haru-san,” he said, bowing to her.
“Hiroshi-san.” She bowed back. When she stood straight, she barely reached his shoulder. Hiroshi was muscular but not as heavy as some of the other sumotori. He was wearing a dark blue yukata robe and looked quite handsome, older and more self-assured than the young rikishi who used to come to pick up the chanko she cooked. The sweet smell of bintsuke in his hair floated through the air.
“I understand that you’re leaving for Nara tomorrow.”
Haru paused. “Hai,” she said, realizing everyone at the stable must have known for months.