Kenji bowed low. “Matsui-sama, I had no idea it was you. I’m honored to have you in my shop.”
Matsui smiled, still holding the Okina mask in his hand. “I’ve heard of your workmanship. Many say it has all the earmarks of a Yoshiwara mask.”
He bowed again. “I would be honored to be half as good as Yoshiwara-sensei.”
Matsui held up the Okina mask. “It seems I have the proof right in my hands. I also recall that we’ve met before.”
“Hai,” he said. “Almost ten years ago. I attended a performance with Yoshiwara-sensei.”
Matsui nodded. “Backstage. You were the boy with Akira-san.”
“Hai.”
“Akira said then you’d be the next great mask maker. It seems he was right.” Matsui placed the mask back on the shelf. “I’ve come to see if you’d like to make a mask for me?”
“You honor me, Matsui-sama.” Kenji bowed. “It would be my greatest honor to have you wear one of my masks.”
Matsui smiled. He placed a package on the table. “I’ll leave an old mask with you for measurements. It was one of Yoshiwara’s best. I’ll need a Warai-jo mask. It’s sad but fitting that I should play an old man now. I’ll send someone to pick it up at the end of the month.”
Kenji bowed. “It will be waiting.”
The actor turned to leave, his movements still fluid and elegant. It was Kenji’s last chance to ask Matsui about his sensei.
“Matsui-sama, may I ask if you’ve heard anything about Yoshiwara-sensei?”
Matsui turned back. “I’m afraid your sensei has disappeared into thin air. Perhaps he’s dead like so many others. And if he isn’t, no one will find Akira unless he wants to be found.”
Otomo Matsui smiled sadly, bowed his head, and turned to leave. Even as the door opened and closed behind the great actor, Kenji stood wishing for more.
The Red Collar
At sixteen, Aki was restless and unable to concentrate on anything for long, including her studies. Unlike Haru, who loved Nara Women’s University, she had no interest in pursuing such dry ambitions. In her mind, life was too short to sit in classrooms, laboring over words and numbers in books. She preferred to live the experiences herself, not just read about them. She flipped her schoolbook closed, the quick thud making her smile.
Since their mother’s death, it was Haru who had assumed most of the household responsibilities of the okamisan, the stable master’s wife, from the day-to-day details of running the stable to helping with the accounts. Sometimes, Aki hated how easily it all came to her sister, how organized and efficient she was. She knew her father was grateful to have Haru do so much. But now, with her sister away at school, the household responsibilities fell to her. With Seiko-san, their housekeeper, finally gone, there was just their cook, Sunikosan, who came daily to prepare their meals, while Aki was responsible for keeping the house in order. More often than not, she knew, her housekeeping skills were a disappointment.
Aki leaned back, opened her desk drawer, and pulled out the photo of her mother dressed as a young maiko that she’d found in the trunk. Her mother looked beautiful. She wasn’t much older than Aki, though she appeared considerably more elegant. She fingered the bright red collar of her mother’s vibrant silk kimono, the bold white peonies on the red background, the long scroll sleeves that hung almost to the ground. The black obi was tied higher than usual, reaching up under her arms. She looked just a little off balance, standing tall on wooden sandals and smiling shyly. It was Aki’s favorite photo of her mother, who appeared both fragile and strong in it. Aki stared at her own face in the mirror. She looked older, her face was slimmer, her eyes deeper. It reminded her of a story her mother used to tell her and Haru when they were little girls. “The Mirror of Matsuyama” had been one of her favorites. “Okasan, tell it again, tell it again!” she often pleaded. She remembered how her mother’s thin, arched eyebrows rose in flight. They reminded her of two wings that rose when she was exasperated or amused.
Then her mother would smile and Aki knew she would hear the story again, the soothing wave of her mother’s voice rolling over her.
“A long, long time ago, in a very remote part of Japan, there lived a husband and wife, who had a little girl whom they loved very much. When the little girl’s father went away on business, he promised to bring her back a present if she were good and dutiful to her mother.”
Aki’s mother had paused and looked at them, a smile in her eyes, like the two of you, she said, without saying.
“When her father returned, he brought his little daughter a beautiful doll and a lacquer box of cakes. He gave his wife a metal mirror, a design of pine trees and storks etched on the back. The little girl and her mother had never seen a mirror before.”
Her mother always paused while telling the story to remind them that they lived way out in the countryside, where there were few luxuries.
“When the little girl’s mother looked into the mirror, she saw another woman staring back at her. She gazed with growing wonder until her husband explained the mystery—she was looking at herself. Not long after, the little girl’s mother became very ill. Just before she died, she told her little daughter to take good care of her father. Then she gave the little girl her mirror, telling her to look at it whenever she felt most lonely, and she would always see her there.
“In due time, her father married again, and her stepmother wasn’t very kind to the little girl. Remembering her mother’s words, she took to hiding in the corner and gazing into the mirror, where she saw her dear mother’s face, not drawn in pain as it was before she died, but young and beautiful again.
“When the stepmother found her crouching in the corner looking at something and murmuring to herself, she ignorantly thought the little girl was performing some evil spell against her. The stepmother went to the little girl’s father and told him of her wickedness. When her father confronted his daughter with the tale, he took her by such surprise that she slipped the mirror into her sleeve. For the first time, he grew angry with her, and feared there was some truth to his wife’s story.
“When his daughter heard the unjust accusation, she was so hurt by her father’s words it was as if he had slapped her. She told him she loved him too much to ever kill his wife knowing that she was dear to him.
“ ‘What have you hidden in your sleeve?’ said her father, still not convinced.
“ ‘The mirror you gave my mother, which she gave to me before she died. Every time I look into its shining surface, I see the face of my dear mother, young and beautiful again. When my heart aches, it helps me to bear the harsh words and cross looks by seeing my mother’s sweet, kind smile.’
“Only then did her father understand that it was her own face she was gazing at, thinking it was her mother’s. He loved his daughter even more for her filial piety. Even the girl’s stepmother was ashamed and asked forgiveness. And the little girl, who believed she had seen her mother’s face in the mirror, forgave her stepmother, and trouble departed from their house forever.”
Aki looked closely at her mother’s youthful face in the photo, and then gazed into the mirror to scrutinize her own reflection. She saw similarities in the oval shape of the face, the curve of her lips, and especially in the black pearl eyes. She leaned back. From a distance, there might be confusion, a young Noriko returned to the living. Aki imagined herself in the photo and tried to remember the light, graceful steps of the Tachikata, the traditional Japanese dance her mother had learned as a young apprentice geisha and taught her as a little girl.
A low rumbling of voices outside led Aki to peer out the window to see her father talking to Hiroshi-san in the courtyard. She was too far away to hear what was being said. It appeared to be a serious discussion because neither of them looked happy. She knew her father could be harsh with his rikishi, often getting irritated and yelling at them for the smallest mistake. But wasn’t this perfectionism the reason he was considered the best oyakata in Japan? She shaded her eyes from
the sun. She thought Hiroshi’s fighting name was appropriate, he resembled a noble mountain standing next to her father. He was big and muscular—but not like some of the other wrestlers, whose enormous stomachs spilled over their mawashi belts. She watched them move through everyday life with slow, laborious steps. But once on the dohyo, they were transformed into wrestlers who moved with such force and agility, she forgot all about their size.
When Aki was a little girl, she thought the sumotori were special men that the gods had created. How else could they be so big? “That would make me a god, Aki-chan,” her father said, laughing. “You’ll see when you grow older that they’re just ordinary men. It’s only through training at the stable that they become so big and strong. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to fight the other big men and win.”
Aki nodded. Even so, she always saw them as something other than ordinary men.
Hiroshi stepped back, his hands on his hips, a stance that seemed to her to be defiance. After her fall from the genkan, Aki had never had the opportunity to speak at length with Hiroshi. When their paths crossed occasionally, she bowed politely and remained quiet. She was grateful to him for keeping his word not to tell her father about her fall. She waited all that evening for her father’s reproach, which never came. Now, as she watched Hiroshi with her father, Aki reminded herself that she must thank him again.
The voices abruptly stopped. She looked out the window and saw Hiroshi bowing to her father. When he stood again, they were the same height, but her father looked like an older, smaller version of the young sumotori standing across from him. Her father’s pale, shaved head gleamed in the sunlight, the brilliance of it stealing her attention. At that moment, Hiroshi’s gaze caught her watching them from the window, his eyes meeting hers for just an instant. Aki stepped quickly back, startled, her heart beating fast, just the way her mother’s heart must have raced when she finished dancing—the young maiko wearing the red collar—with all eyes watching her.
The Return
Akira Yoshiwara waited across the alleyway from Kenji’s mask shop, shading his eyes against the sunlight. A rush of thoughts filled his mind as he walked slowly toward the shop. He had imagined taking these steps for weeks now. Akira had caught his breath the day he saw Otomo Matsui round the corner and enter the shop. The great actor still moved with grace and presence. Akira wanted to follow him in, but decided against it. Kenji deserved the honor of facing the greatest living Noh actor alone. Through the window, he saw the two men talking and he felt the same pride and joy he’d experienced so many years ago when Matsui first entered his shop. Perhaps it was a sign, the right moment for him, too, to make his reappearance. He and Kenji had followed different paths and had come full circle back to the mask shop. Only this time, Kenji was the mask artisan.
The door of the shop whined open when Akira stepped in. The room was immediately familiar; the same warm smells of sweet cypress and the sharp, tinny paints. He almost expected Nazo to come bounding out of the back room. He was simply dressed, in an old gray kimono, and for a moment wondered if he were presentable after all these years. Akira smiled to see all the masks on the shelves, and instinctively picked one up to examine the workmanship. He smiled even wider to see how well crafted the mask was, and how right he had been about Kenji’s skills.
“May I help you?”
Kenji’s voice came from behind and sounded almost irritated at being taken away from his work. It wasn’t unlike a greeting he himself might have given.
“I believe you are the mask maker?” Akira turned and asked in his soft and steady cadence.
“Sensei?” Kenji recognized him immediately.
Akira smiled. Kenji was a tall and fine-looking young man. He wore his hair long and tied back, while his own were now cut short and streaked with gray. His mustache and beard were also softened with gray, and they both carried the same lean frames.
“I knew if I waited long enough, Otomo would find his way to you. After all, there are only so many brilliant mask makers. Your shop wasn’t difficult to find.”
Kenji looked stunned. “Where have you been?” he asked.
“Far away,” Akira answered.
“How long have you been back in Tokyo?”
“For almost six months.”
“And you didn’t come sooner?” A slight rise of accusation rang through his voice.
Akira looked away. “I had to decide if I would stay in Tokyo or not. There was no reason to disturb you until I came to a decision.”
Kenji paused a moment. “And will you stay?”
He nodded.
Kenji didn’t move. He appeared suddenly nervous and unsure, his long fingers tapping the edge of the table. “I’ve dreamed about this day,” he said. “I’ve imagined it like a scene from a Noh play, how you, in the form of a man or a ghost, would return.”
“I’m happy to say it’s the man who has returned.”
Kenji smiled and bowed, offered Akira a chair before disappearing to make tea. Years ago, he’d been the one to wander in from the cold, beaten and alone. Akira knew so many questions would come later, many he no longer cared to answer. When Kenji returned and poured him a cup of tea, he saw the first questions poised on his lips: “Why did you leave?” “Where did you go?” But the words were silenced when his gaze fell on Akira Yoshiwara’s empty sleeve.
The Bamboo Stalk
Hiroshi awoke with an unsettled feeling, a rumbling beast in the middle of his stomach. It was the second Sunday of May, and the Natsu Basho would begin that afternoon. If he did well at the tournament, he was almost assured promotion to the champion rank of ozeki. Hiroshi was always mindful of his good fortune. Still, for the first time, he couldn’t shake his anxiousness the entire morning.
During the last two-week tournament in March, he’d won thirteen out of his fifteen matches; he’d nearly lost another when his foot slipped and he almost went down. But Hiroshi caught his balance and recalled Fukuda once telling him that he had the strength of a bamboo stalk. “It leans forward and backward in the wind, but it always stays upright, Hiroshi-san, just like you.” He often thought of Fukuda, and tried to imagine him a farmer toiling on his father’s land; he hoped his young friend had found his way in life.
Hiroshi stood up from the futon and winced when his feet touched the wooden floor. His soles were tender and raw. The night before last, using a sharp pocketknife, he had lanced the blisters on them, developed from the constant rubbing against the dirt floor of the practice room. He squeezed out the pus and hoped his feet would heal before the tournament, but saw instead that they resembled two scarred battlefields. He gingerly walked back and forth until the tenderness dulled.
By the time Hiroshi reached the stadium mid-afternoon, Sadao had his trunk ready for him in the locker room. While he waited for his first match, he read from his book of poems to relax. His anxiety had eased by the time he walked down the hanamichi aisle from the east side. The arena was filled and he transformed his worries into pure energy as he stepped into the ring.
During the first three days of the tournament, he won each of his matches. By the fourth day of the tournament, Hiroshi was completely relaxed when he stepped onto the dohyo. The roar of the crowd quieted. The air was thick and smoky. He and his opponent, a wrestler named Nakamura, moved flawlessly through the opening rituals before they knelt at the starting line and their eyes locked. The sudden, hard impact of their bodies felt no different from so many other bouts he’d fought. A split second afterward, Nakamura grabbed his mawashi belt and quickly wrapped his leg around Hiroshi’s in an effort to trip him. He twisted away and felt a sharp, sudden pop in his knee, followed by an excruciating pain that traveled up through his leg to the top of his head. Hiroshi hung on to Nakamura’s mawashi belt and struggled to drive him out of the dohyo before he collapsed. Sweating from the agony and effort to stay upright, Hiroshi tasted sweat as he held tightly on to the belt, and summoned all the strength he had to throw his weight against Nakamura. I
n the next moment, amid the daze of voices and bright lights, he experienced a moment of stunning weightlessness as both their bodies fell hard against the clay surface.
Recovery
Hiroshi dreamed he and Kenji were boys again, running down the Yanaka alleyways. He felt the heat of the sun pushing against his back like a warm hand. “Faster, faster,” he heard Kenji’s laughing voice call out. His brother was just ahead of him, but no matter how fast Hiroshi ran, he couldn’t catch up. Their old neighbor Harakawa-san, who had died during the war, was alive again, eating a bowl of steaming hot udon noodles. He lifted his chopsticks in a wave as they ran by. When Hiroshi looked ahead, he saw that it was now a young woman he was chasing, and when she finally turned back, he glimpsed Aki-san just before he jerked awake.
For the rest of the night, Hiroshi couldn’t sleep and lay uncomfortably on his futon, his knee secured by a brace that kept him flat on his back. Unlike other wrestlers, whose point of force was amassed in their stomachs, his strength was concentrated in his legs, iron hard and muscular after years of training. The weeks after his injury, Hiroshi had an operation to mend the torn ligament in his knee. Each day since, he struggled through therapy and exercise, which was as rigorous as the early days of sumo training, when every muscle in his body ached, and sleep was his only refuge. Now, he wished sleep would overtake him again. Instead, there were moments of dreaming and then sleeplessness.
Every morning, Sadao helped him up from his futon like a helpless child. Once standing, Hiroshi could move around slowly by himself on crutches. He winced now to recall how he’d taken his frustrations out on Sadao more times than he wanted to remember, like the morning he accidentally hit his knee as the boy was helping him up from his futon. The pain had surged upward to the tip of his tongue, and he’d blurted out without thinking, “Be careful! Didn’t your okasan teach you anything?” The word “mother” slipped from his lips before he could catch it. Sadao bowed and apologized, then quickly left the room, with Hiroshi standing amid his own shame.