His obaachan sat down across from him and said softly, “Do you think Mika-chan would want to see you this way? There was no one who loved life more. Don’t dishonor her memory by giving up on the very life she treasured.”
Her words echoed through the small kitchen. He looked down at his bandaged hands. His mouth tasted sour. “Yes, yes, yes,” he wanted to say, but why then had Mika simply disappeared, leaving him behind with all this sorrow? How could he explain the gaping hole where his heart was? So he nodded to appease his grandmother. “Hai,” he whispered, thinking that all lives eventually ended. And wasn’t sorrow a kind of slow death anyway?
The year’s distance had softened his outlook. Kenji glanced up at the canvas bag with Mika’s masks in it sitting on the top shelf. Hiroshi had given the bag to Yoshiwara-sensei to keep. His teacher had put it out of the way, yet always within sight. It was up to Kenji as to when, and if, he looked at them again. On impulse, he walked over and reached up for the watermarked, soot-stained bag and swung it down to the worktable. He looked at the palms of his hands, which had completely healed, and tentatively opened the bag. One by one, he lined up the masks across the table and Mika was suddenly in the room with him again. A moment’s agitation before he felt strangely calm, comforted. Kenji examined each mask closely; only two were really damaged by the fire. The others could be cleaned and easily restored. He reached into a drawer for sandpaper, a fine grade that wouldn’t scratch the wood. Then Kenji gently, lovingly, began sanding away the scorched areas around her nose and along her cheek. He blew away the black dust and smiled to find that there was new life underneath.
The Challenge
It wasn’t the challenge of winning or losing, but of standing up on her two feet that brought her such joy.
“You see, Yoshio,” Fumiko said aloud. “I haven’t forgotten.” She reached up and placed the small bouquet of lilies in a vase by his photo. The past few weeks she’d remained bedridden, the constant pain in her hip making it difficult to walk. She’d fallen and broken it at the end of last August, just after Kenji had returned to his own home, and now, almost eight months later, it still gave her trouble. But this morning, Fumiko didn’t care what the doctor said; she was lured by the sweet fragrance of the lilies in bloom and she was determined to put some by Yoshio’s photo.
“Fumiko-san, what are you doing out of bed?”
She quickly turned around at the sound of Kazuko’s voice, the live-in housekeeper Hiroshi had hired to take care of her and the house after she fell and broke her hip. She refused to move in with either of her grandsons, and only agreed to Kazuko’s coming when she was bedridden. Fumiko felt uncomfortable with another woman in the house, doing all the simple things she’d done for more than sixty years. It irritated her to see the middle-aged, heavyset woman who stayed in her grandsons’ room and moved through her house as if it were her own. And now, she had the nerve to confine her to bed.
“And why can’t I be anywhere I wish to be in my own house?” she said.
“Fumiko-san, you know you’re supposed to be resting.”
Kazuko’s voice dropped a few octaves. She was always too loud for Fumiko’s taste. She imagined her as a child in school, always the one who spoke the loudest and knew the least.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“That’s what Sayo-san said,” Kazuko went on about the mistress at her last position. In her stories, she was never the one who was wrong. “She thought everything was fine until one day she strained her back. I took care of her for months and I’m sorry to say that she never rose from her futon again.”
Fumiko shook her head. She noticed that Kazuko never spoke of her personal life. Was she ever married? Did she have any children? Most likely she had scared them all off with her attentiveness. “If you’re so sure I’ll hurt myself doing the smallest task, then you’d better carry me back up the stairs to my room,” she said, amused. Lately, their verbal sparring had become a game they played with each other.
“You’re too funny, Fumiko-san. I can see you’ll live to a fine old age.”
Fumiko smiled. “I’ve already reached a fine old age, and I mean it. I believe it would best if you carried me back up,” she said. “I’m afraid my grandsons won’t be happy to know that I’ve used up what little energy I have left climbing the stairs!”
Kazuko paused for a moment and studied her face. “I see, Fumiko-san. Do you think I’ll give up working here because of your petty and difficult behavior? Well, I’ve seen it all.” She walked over to Fumiko, turned around, and leaned over. “Get on, then,” she directed. “Let me help you up the stairs.”
Fumiko couldn’t back away now and let Kazuko get the better of her. She had only meant to reclaim her position in the household, to give Kazuko a small reminder that she couldn’t direct her every move; she hadn’t expected Kazuko to really carry her up the stairs. Fumiko had acted childish, and now regretted it. Why was getting old so much like going backward? She hesitated before climbing onto the wide back. Slowly, she lifted her leg and a sharp pain instantly paralyzed her entire body. She stumbled back and a high-pitched cry emerged from her.
“It’s okay now, just come closer,” Kazuko instructed and she stepped backward to accommodate her.
It took Fumiko a full minute to catch her breath and allow the pain to move through her leg and out the tips of her toes. She took a deep breath and tried again.
Kazuko squatted yet lower. “Put your arms around my neck and lean forward onto my back.”
She didn’t argue and did as she was told. A child again. Fumiko leaned forward onto the big, broad back as if she were being sacrificed; her thin arms grasped tightly around Kazuko’s red, blotchy neck like a winter scarf. It brought back a long-ago memory of once taking a walk with her father and her thirteen-year-old brother, Isamu. She was just a bit older than five-year-old Takara was now. It felt as if they’d walked half the day away. And even when their house was finally in sight, she simply couldn’t find the strength to walk anymore, much less make it up the hill. Her father paid little attention to her and marched on in quick, long strides, his sandals click-clacking even as she fell farther and farther behind. It was Isamu who finally stopped and waited for her, teasing her into moving faster. “Hurry or even the tortoise will beat you home, Fumi.” Then he leaned over so she could scramble onto his back, her arms wrapped around his sweaty neck, his slightly sour boy smell making her turn her head to the side. He carried her all the way up the hill and to the front door.
Kazuko took one stair at a time, a small grunt emerging with each step, careful not to drop her load. She was from the Niigata prefecture in central Japan, raised in a family of farmers, and as Fumiko suspected, was used to carrying much heavier loads than her. Fumiko turned her head and rested it for just a moment on Kazuko’s thick, soft shoulder. She was tired, and the weight of life suddenly felt pressing. If Fumiko were to die right at that moment, she’d be more than ready.
The Wako Department Store
As soon as they stepped out of the darkened train station and into the bright daylight, Haru felt the July heat rising from the pavement, a mixture of afternoon boil and exhaust from the crowds and cars. The shrieking buses stopped and started along the teeming Ginza shopping district, lined with a multitude of tall buildings and expensive shops. After the war, soldiers and foreigners had brought the area back to life. Pale, sleeping neon lights shimmered in the sunlight. At night she envisioned them coming alive, the side streets aglow in the hypnotic flashing of lights. But in the blinding, mid-afternoon light of summer, Haru followed just a step behind Aki, who held Takara’s sweaty hand as they walked down the congested sidewalk. Every once in a while, Takara turned back to make sure she was still behind them. Haru smiled and nodded in reassurance, part of her wishing she were holding the small, slippery hand in hers.
Since Aki was feeling better again, they went on more outings on the days she didn’t teach; to the park or the market, even to the zoo, where Takara
was fascinated with the giraffes, their height and, even more so, their long eyelashes. She thought giraffes were all girls, even if they weren’t, because of their long, rolled eyelashes, which she called seaweed lashes, like the strips of dried seaweed rolled into sushi.
Haru smiled to herself and breathed in the warm, stale air. She’d found happiness in her life after all; teaching in Tokyo and watching Takara grow up. The Wako Department Store was just down the block and her heart raced at the thought of entering the tall doors and walking into the cool, open, high-ceilinged room. The Wako had a long history of selling watches and other luxuries from all over the world. When she and Aki were young girls, their mother took them to look at all the lovely things at least twice a year, and Haru grew dizzy from the powerful scent of new leather and sweet perfumes. She’d always felt as if she were stepping out of their scentless life and into the rich aromas of another. It would forever remain her favorite store and she hoped Takara would feel the same one day. The Wako Department Store was also one of the few buildings in the area to have survived the bombings at the end of the war. During the occupation it was used as the army PX, but was fully restored to its former glory when the occupation ended. She looked up to see the watchtower that defined the famous building, with its curved granite façade sitting on one of the most exclusive corners in the Ginza. Now that Aki-chan was finally better, returning to the Wako felt like a glorious moment—they had all somehow survived, to varying degrees, the madness of the war.
It was the last thing Haru thought about before an explosion ripped through the air, a noise so loud and familiar to all who had lived through the bombings during the war that she saw people around her instinctively dive to the ground, hands over their heads, as they were taught to do during the bombing drills. Haru moved forward without thinking, her arms going around Aki and Takara, trying to protect them. There was a general confusion, and while some ran, most stayed right where they were, too stunned to move. The twenty years between war and peace disappeared in an instant, as fragile as flesh. Moments passed before Haru heard voices of reassurance. “It’s all right! It’s all right!” someone shouted. In the far distance, sirens blared, coming closer. She looked up to see a great plume of smoke rising from the ground floor of a tall building just across the street. Only then did people slowly get up, dust their clothes off, and quickly continue along their way.
She saw how remnants of the war would always haunt those who had lived through it. Haru held on tightly to Takara, only to realize that Aki had slipped from her grip. Where was she? She looked frantically around, holding Takara’s hand. “Aki,” she yelled. “Aki!”
It was Takara who pulled at her sleeve and pointed down the street. Aki was cowering in a doorway, her hands over her head. Haru rushed over, pulling Takara along.
“Aki-chan, it’s all right, it was only some accident across the road,” Haru coaxed. She saw her sister’s entire body trembling as if she’d lost control. “Stay right here,” she said to Takara. Very slowly, she approached Aki and put her hand on top of hers. “Come now, everything’s going to be fine.”
“Okasan,” Takara said.
Aki looked up.
“Everything’s fine,” Haru repeated.
She stepped out of the way so Aki could see for herself, as she glanced fearfully through her fingers like a child. The steady beat of life had returned to the Ginza, the heat and noise embraced them again. Slowly, so did Aki. Her hands slid away from her face and wrapped around her body as Haru helped her up. Her unsteady steps soon grew steadier as they walked back to the train station. Takara pulled at her sleeve, and when Haru bent over, she whispered, “Okasan is tired again.” Haru held on to Aki’s arm with one hand and Takara’s hand with the other. Aki remained silent on the train, having retreated again into a world where she felt safe and comfortable. When the train pulled into their station, she looked over at Haru and asked, “Are we home?”
They never set foot in the Wako Department Store again. It wasn’t until much later that they learned an old boiler had blown up in the building across the street, leaving one man injured.
32
August 6, 1965
From the window, Aki watched Tamiko-san leave the house with the bamboo basket she carried every morning to the market, the wooden gate slamming closed behind her. When she returned, Aki could usually tell by the contents of her basket what they’d be having for dinner; potatoes, carrots, and turnips meant a sweet vegetable stew, along with fish or pork tonkatsu. A whole chicken meant teriyaki or sukiyaki. She put such thoughts out of her mind; she didn’t need to guess what Tamiko would have in her basket when she returned today.
Aki glanced at the clock to see that it wasn’t quite ten. All morning, the radio had blared news of the twentieth anniversary of the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Hiroshi had already left for another meeting with sponsors. She no longer cared who his meetings were with, whether they represented cold drinks or snack foods or tires. Takara was out with Haru and she smiled at the thought of her little daughter, so bright and curious at age five. She carried their best qualities, Hiroshi’s strength and her once youthful inquisitiveness. With Haru’s nurturing care, Takara would always be safe and secure. She didn’t allow her thoughts to wander any further.
Aki knew she had no more than two hours before Tamiko returned. She stood up and went to the hall closet. Her mother’s lacquer chest with the phoenix on top was stored there. She knelt and opened it, removed the tissue paper and the red kimono with the white peonies her mother wore as a young maiko, along with the red undergarments and her black-colored obi, which was interwoven with gold thread, her wooden sandals, makeup case, and her elaborate hair combs. Aki carried them all back to her room, where the photo of her mother as a young geisha apprentice, dressed in the very same kimono, sat squarely on her desk. She laid out the kimono on her futon and sat down to slowly begin applying her makeup first. From the green leather makeup case, she took out a glass container with a powdery white makeup. Then, with a flat brush, she mixed some of the makeup with water until it became a smooth, white paste. Aki studied her mother’s photo before applying the makeup to her own face and neck. From the dark, waning moons of her eyebrows to the bright red of her lips, Aki painstakingly copied each detail from her mother’s photo. Her hair wasn’t right but she pulled it back and pinned it up in a chignon. Then she placed the bright flower combs to each side of her hair. When she finished, Aki leaned back and stared into the mirror, at the face that could almost be her mother’s staring back at her.
Aki’s heart raced. She was almost there. She turned around to look at the kimono on her futon. The most complicated part of dressing would be tying the wide obi around her waist by herself. It was long and awkward and had to be wound around several times, a difficult task with the long scroll sleeves of an apprentice geisha’s kimono hanging down. She tried a number of times and finally settled on fastening the many cords in the front, instead of in the back. It would never look as though a professional had dressed her, but it would have to do. She stepped up into the three-inch-high wooden sandals and felt as if she were rising out of herself.
Aki looked into the mirror and glanced at the photo one final time. She smiled and bowed to the geisha she saw reflected back at her.
The kimono was heavier and more cumbersome than Aki thought as she made her way through the garden. She carried rope and a wooden stool from the kitchen. The wind was blowing warm and muggy, the underrobe clinging to her back. The click-clack of the maiko sandals made it even more difficult to walk on the uneven stone path. But there was no hurry. No one would be home for at least an hour and she had plenty of time to walk through the garden. She stopped for a moment and looked up. The sky was a clear blue, the color of a calm sea. Aki remembered clear, hot days like this when she was a little girl, and how she was the first one up and out of the house to stand in the courtyard and stare up at the sky. She sometimes imagined it was the sea above her. She closed her eyes
and heard the roar of the waves breaking and smelled the salt-fish breeze. She was that same little girl who had wanted to know if it rained because holes were poked in the sea sky. Was the sea sky crying? These thoughts felt like a lifetime ago.
Aki walked slowly down the path, hoping to choose a tree whose limbs were strong enough. She couldn’t afford any mistakes. She began to worry that none of the trees in the garden could support her weight as the laurel tree had supported the old gardener in The Damask Drum. The sakura weren’t fully grown and the willows and maples were too fragile. Aki’s thoughts moved quickly back and forth until her gaze rested on the old pine tree near the pond. Much of the garden had been planned around the existing pine, and now she smiled to realize why. She looked back toward the house one last time, but didn’t allow herself to think of Takara or Hiroshi, Haru or her father. It was better this way.
She threw the gardener’s rope over the sturdy tree branch and watched it whip around once and come back to her. She did it again a few more times and pulled it taut against the branch before she moved the wooden stool underneath and set it steady. The area beside the pond was still cool from the shade of the tree. She carefully stepped up onto the stool, balancing herself with the help of the rope. Then she carefully placed the loop of the rough rope, thick and heavy, around her neck. Could it be as simple as this? She closed her eyes and saw her mother again on that awful day of the firestorm so many years ago, pulling Aki in one direction, while she fought to go in another, back to where they’d lost Haru. “This way,” her mother’s voice screamed above the roar, but Aki dug her feet squarely in the dirt where she stood and refused to move. The world was dark smoke around her when she suddenly turned at her mother’s scream to see her back engulfed in bright flames like some strangely beautiful bird. She saw again the look on her mother’s face, her eyes wide in pain and surprise as she pushed Aki roughly away from the fire. Afterward, all that she’d lost was her voice; along with the memory that it was her fault the fire had devoured her mother. She saw it all so clearly now as her mother’s flaming body turned away from her and disappeared into the thick, choking smoke, leaving her alone and directionless.