“Your father said you’ll be entering Nara University a year early.” Hiroshi smiled. “He’s very proud of you.
Haru blushed.
He must have noticed, and added, “It’s hard to keep any secrets at the stable.”
Haru couldn’t imagine anyone keeping a secret with all the rikishi living in such close quarters. “Hai,” she said.
“May I?” He offered to carry her furoshiki.
“Domo arigato, but it’s not heavy.” She clutched the furoshiki tighter, grateful to have something in her hand.
“We’ll be very sad to see you leave,” he said, walking along with her.
She blushed again, pushed her free hand into the folds of her kimono. For a big man, he moved lightly as they walked in silence. Haru glanced up him. “May I ask you a question, Hiroshi-san?”
“Hai,” he answered.
“How was it for you leaving your family and coming to the stable?” Haru had always wondered how boys as young as fifteen could leave home to train as sumo apprentices. She was older and going to university, but still she felt bereft.
Hiroshi cleared his throat. “I was a bit older than other boys when I came to the stable. I imagine the young ones are terribly homesick at first.”
“Hai,” she agreed.
He added, “But I’ve wanted to be a sumotori ever since I was a boy; most of us want the same thing. We all realize what an honor it is to be chosen. And we are fortunate; your father is a good man.”
He hadn’t said a good coach, she thought, but a good man, which somehow meant more to her. Haru already knew her father was a good coach, so it meant more that a rikishi also respected him as a person. “He thinks very highly of you,” she said. She looked away, knowing that her father had spoken of Hirohsi-san just once or twice over the years, saying what a hard worker he was.
“Your father has been kind,” he said. “I have a long way to go yet.”
She smiled. “Hai, we all have.”
“And what will you study at Nara?” he asked.
Haru looked up, pleased at how comfortable it was having this conversation with Hiroshi. “Science,” she answered. “Botany, perhaps, the science of plants.” She felt her heart beating faster. For months after the firestorm, she had searched for any signs of life and found it in a weed that refused to be smothered. Its endurance had inspired her studies, including Darwin’s theories and books on botany. Still, she felt suddenly foolish and had no idea why she’d told him botany. “Or maybe not,” she added.
Hiroshi laughed. “I believe, Haru-san, you would make a very good scientist.”
“Why is that?”
“Science is very precise,” he answered.
She waited for him to continue but he didn’t. When they reached the front gate of the stable, Hiroshi bowed low and said, “Science is also full of surprises.” He smiled. “I hope to see you again before you leave.”
Haru bowed back. It was the longest conversation she’d had with a man, other than her father.
Haru stroked the smooth material of her kimono and returned to her packing. When she glanced up, Aki was standing in the doorway. “Don’t forget to write me,” she said, her voice sad, her face solemn.
Haru smiled. “How could I forget to write to you? Besides, we really won’t be that far away.”
“Yes we will,” Aki said. “You won’t be here at the house, or even in Tokyo, so it will be far away.”
Haru didn’t know what to say. “Just think, you’ll have this room all to yourself,” Haru said lightly. “Soon, you won’t want me to return and disturb your things.”
Haru watched her sister. Where had that vibrant young Aki gone? The little girl who once entertained and exasperated her was now a thin, sullen young woman, whose bright eyes had dulled even with all her beauty. Haru sometimes felt she’d lost more than just her mother five years ago. She cleared her throat, looked down at the thickened skin on her palms. “We’d better go,” she said, grabbing her bag and Aki’s hand. “Otosan is waiting.”
Spring and Fall
Sho Tanaka paced back and forth in the courtyard, waiting for his daughters to come downstairs. Fall was in the air, the sad, lonely scent of summer fading. A lessening of light. Haru, spring. Aki, fall. Each daughter named for the season in which they had arrived into the world.
If they didn’t hurry, Haru would be late catching her train to Nara. How had the time slipped away from him? When had she grown into a young woman? He smiled to himself at the thought. Was Haru ever a young girl? She always seemed older than her age. At seventeen, she had sacrificed so much of her youth taking care of the household. After Noriko’s death, she became okamisan of the stable, taking care of Aki and helping him with the rikishi, and, strangely enough, the wrestlers always treated her with the respect usually given to a grown woman. Even Daishima, who thought of nothing other than his own well-being, respected Haru.
Sho couldn’t imagine the Katsuyama-beya without her. What he would miss most was Haru’s warmth and her nurturing ways. It was something he wasn’t able to give to either of his daughters after Noriko’s death. After Aki lost her voice, she became remote and difficult. If anyone questioned her too closely about the firestorm, she would cry and stay by Haru’s side. Instead, he had remained at a distance and devoted himself to rebuilding the stable, watching the rikishi slowly return. He had survived the loss of his wife at the cost of his daughters. Sho shook his head and couldn’t imagine what he and Aki would talk about every night with Haru gone. Her calm had tied their lives altogether.
There had been too many goodbyes lately. It made him wistful. He looked up to see if his daughters were coming. Other fathers might worry about finding their daughter a good husband. But Sho felt Haru deserved to find her own way. Any college boy with any sense would see Haru’s value. He smiled to think how much she was like him, disciplined and organized. Thankfully, both of his daughters had resembled their mother, each a daily reminder of Noriko. Sometimes, when he caught a glimpse of Aki leaving the house in a hurry, he still saw Noriko rushing off to shop at the market.
At the train station, he would be saying goodbye again, this time to Haru. One by one, it felt as if everyone were leaving him, though it would never be as devastating as Noriko’s sudden absence. He never had the chance to say goodbye—to whisper sayonara in her ear—a simple word that would have meant so much.
“There you are,” he said, seeing Haru and Aki step out of the house. Yes, it was true. They had grown up without his realizing it; he had been too busy training boys to become sumotori while his little girls had become young women. Even Aki wouldn’t need him much longer. She was already so distant, keeping to herself and spending so much time in her room. What did a fourteen-year-old girl do in her room all day? he wondered. Then he smiled and touched the sleeve of Haru’s kimono, taking the suitcase from her hand and, as he looked down, catching a glimpse of the small scar on her palm. “We must hurry, Haru-chan,” he said, “or you’ll miss your train.”
The Road
It was still dark when Akira stepped outside and quietly closed the door to the barn, the October air cold and crisp. He knew winter wasn’t far off and checked again to see that he’d stacked enough wood by the side of the barn. It was just before dawn and dark shadows moved with the wind, the rustling branches waving as he turned back once and headed toward the main road that led down to the village of Aio. Akira felt an ache in his chest that traveled down to where his hand used to be. He moved with slow, careful steps, as if the darkness and the rutted road were deliberately slowing him down. He saw the road that lay before him like his life, scarred by long winters, the harsh, dry summers. Akira swung the bag with his few possessions over his shoulder. He left behind a note, the cat Nazo, who was too old and settled to travel such a distance again, and the finished Okina mask. Kiyo would take good care of Nazo and the mask.
As dawn’s light slowly brought everything into focus, Akira walked faster, knowing that each step
took him farther away from Emiko and Kiyo. He stopped a moment when the sun rose to reveal a breathtaking sight; all around him the pine trees stood silent and the red-orange leaves of autumn blazed as they reached upward toward the light.
It was never the same with Emiko after her visit to the barn that night. They hardly spoke and danced around each other politely, acting like two guests at an inn. He kept to himself in the barn, cut the wood, and did the chores, but there was a lingering sadness to everything he did. What little hope he’d had for a family life had vanished. So many times he had wanted to give in to the comfort of Emiko and Kiyo and their praying-hands house. They might have been happy as far as lives go. But he couldn’t stop asking himself, Wasn’t there supposed to be more to life? Hadn’t he felt it before with Sato? Only once did Emiko refer to that night. And even then she offered it as an apology, as if everything were her fault. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Akira-san. It wasn’t my place.”
He bowed to her. “It is your place, Emiko-san,” he said softly. The rest of his words sat on the edge of his tongue and never emerged. He saw her eyes imploring him to go on, and how the deepening lines that etched her face made her appear beautiful to him. “Thank you for allowing me to stay,” he said instead.
Emiko smiled thinly and bowed back to him.
It wasn’t long before Kiyo knew something was wrong. “Why are you both acting so distant, so strange?” she asked, stroking Nazo’s stomach as he lay on the table in the barn. He was old and no longer spent his days chasing squirrels, or leaping at low-flying birds.
Akira laughed it off and went on cleaning out the barn. “What are you talking about?” he said.
She eyed him closely. “My mother seems so sad,” she said.
He knew she was waiting for him to say something. “I’m sorry,” was all he could think of.
“Did something happen?” she asked.
Akira shook his head. “We all get sad sometimes.”
He watched her pick up Nazo, rocking him back and forth in her arms. The aloof cat that once had hated to be carried was completely different with Kiyo.
“I hope I never get that sad,” she finally said.
He didn’t look at her then. There was nothing he could say. Kiyo was going to be fifteen and life was just beginning for her. Akira wanted nothing more than to protect her always from life’s sadness, shield her from the hurt she’d invariably experience, but at that moment, he knew he wouldn’t be the one to do that. These thoughts played over in his mind as he made his way down the mountain to the village of Aio. From there, he would find a ride down to Oyama and catch a train back to Tokyo. He would be there by evening.
Messengers from God
From the moment she stepped off the train, Haru was in love with Nara. During the four-hour journey, she read about the city as soon as she was in the compartment by herself. All thoughts of loneliness disappeared in the pages. Nara was once the ancient capital of Japan, where Buddhism grew and thrived, and the Todai-ji temple housed the largest bronze statue of Buddha in the world. There was also Nara Park, which covered half the city, and was famous for the deer that roamed freely, deer once believed to be messengers from the gods. Most called it Deer Park. Nara was lovely in a way that she hadn’t expected—much smaller and quieter than Tokyo—filled with temples and shrines, and in the middle of it all stood Nara Women’s University. While Haru missed her father and Aki, even the sumo stable, she found a certain relief in being in a new place where the difficulties of the past were far away and she could glimpse her future right in front of her, spread out far and wide like Deer Park.
Haru spent the two days before the start of classes walking around Nara, visiting shrines and temples, looking forward to seeing Nara Park. Each morning, she was out of the dormitory before anyone else was up. It was late autumn and cool in the early mornings, the leaves falling all around her, blanketing her footsteps in a soothing quiet. She left visiting the park for last, the afternoon before her classes were to begin. A calm before what she hoped wouldn’t be a storm. She had had enough storms in her life.
Haru wasn’t disappointed. Nara Park was a world of its own. A wall of tall pine and oak trees protected it from the noise of the outside. Stepping into the park, she felt an immediate sense of comfort that swelled in her chest. There was a multitude of paths to follow. With every step, she discovered a new plant or unfamiliar foliage that she sketched quickly in her notebook. She hoped to see deer roaming in the park when she came to a flat, open expanse of green grass, where they were fed by visitors and taken care of by park attendants. But there wasn’t a deer in sight. Haru followed the empty path and wondered where the deer were hiding. Were they tired of being put on show? From the corner of her eye, Haru saw shadows by the trees, a small group of deer standing perfectly still, watching her. She stopped and smiled, held out her hand to them. After all, she had entered their world, and she was the one on display.
Haru walked around the park until sunset, watching the sun disappear behind the tall trees before she returned to her dormitory, exhausted. After a quick meal, she fell into a deep sleep. Even the strange hollowness of the dormitory and the whispering voices of excited students all around her didn’t wake her. Instead, she dreamed she, too, was a messenger from the gods, standing among all the deer that roamed freely through the park, their warm breath against the palm of her hand as she fed them deer crackers, made of plain rice flour. Haru stood with them, surrounded by the sheltering trees, waiting to hear what the next message was.
Japanese Cypress
By November, with money he borrowed from Hiroshi, Kenji finally found a small shop with a two-room apartment over it that he could afford to rent. Many of the spaces he looked at were just small hovels, abandoned casualties of the war. This particular shop needed work, but it wasn’t far from Akira Yoshiwara’s old mask shop, and was quiet and unobtrusive with a sizable front window to display his masks. Kenji also liked the neighborhood, tucked away in an alley, so that the actors would have to seek him out, just as they had Yoshiwara. He would remain just invisible enough. Everything else would have to be a compromise. The front room was small, even more so when he built shelves to line the walls, but the back room provided ample space to set up the saw and two tables where he would work, much as Yoshiwara had. He felt a tug of sadness at not having his sensei there to give him the skill and technique to be a truly distinctive mask artisan. That Kenji would have to learn on his own.
Kenji bought blocks of Japanese cypress from the same lumberyard where he used to buy balsa wood for his architecture classes. He used his money sparingly, not wanting to take advantage of Hiroshi’s generosity. A diet of noodles and rice and vegetables would suffice. If he needed more sustenance, he had only to visit his grandparents.
Slowly the shop was becoming his. When Kenji came downstairs every morning, the rooms held the subtle sweetness of the cypress wood and paints. But his shelves remained empty, one Zo-onna mask finally finished and waiting to be painted. It took him days to get through the simple steps his sensei had accomplished in hours. He couldn’t afford to make too many more mistakes. His first cuts with the table saw were disasters, uneven or off the mark. A small tragedy every time he wasted any wood. As the weeks passed, Kenji learned to adjust his strength, guide the wood and not force it in order to get the shape he desired. He remembered the words Yoshiwara-sensei told him from the very beginning. “Think of the wood as a living thing, warm to the touch. Never push; let your hands guide the wood.” As Kenji relaxed, the cypress wood came alive in his hands. He began to see the masks that would slowly emerge from the remaining blocks of wood.
Kenji went for a walk every evening, shaking off the stiffness of chiseling and sanding all day. The cold December air revitalized him. The alleyways were filled with people again and twice a week he went directly after work to visit his grandparents. On this particular evening, Kenji found himself jumping on a train and getting off near the university. When he was go
ing to classes every day he dreaded the trip, but now that he had graduated, it felt somehow soothing to return to the familiar. He crossed one street and headed for the old architecture studio when he saw her, Mika Abe, dressed in dark, Western-style clothing, crossing the road and going into a small restaurant. Just by the way she walked, he knew it was her.
“Mika-san!” he called out, picking up his pace.
She stopped at the doorway and looked up. When he reached her, he was surprised by her red lipstick and dark eye makeup. She looked like one of those young followers of the kasutori culture his obaachan talked about. According to his grandmother, they were to blame for the uncontrollable behavior and countercultural sentiments that had captured the thoughts and actions of so many of his classmates and contemporaries. He found Mika Abe as beautiful as before.
Kenji wasn’t sure she recognized him at first. He hadn’t thought about how he must look until that moment. It couldn’t be much different from the first time he had seen Yoshiwara emerge from the back room, disheveled, wood dust all over his hair and kimono, appearing older than he was. It was too late for him to turn away.
He bowed. “Kenji Matsumoto,” he said.
“Hai, I know.” She bowed back. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“Please forgive my appearance. I’ve come from work.”
Mika smiled. “Are you designing the houses, or building them?”
“Neither.” He laughed. “I’ve opened a mask shop in the Yanaka district. It’s the Noh theater I’ve always loved.”
She watched him for a moment in silence. Was it curiosity or disbelief he saw flicker in her eyes? It felt like an eternity before she said, “I’m afraid I have to go; I’m meeting some friends. But I’d like to visit your shop sometime.”