Aki balanced unsteadily on the stool, lifted her arms so the long sleeves of the kimono hung down and fluttered in the warm wind like banners. She looked up at the blue sky that filtered through the branches of the pine tree like pieces of a puzzle, and relaxed at the thought of being reunited with her mother. Aki closed her eyes and counted, ichi, ni, san, shi…, before she kicked the wooden stool away.
After
Hiroshi’s meeting had ended early. From the moment the car dropped him off at the house and he stepped through the gate and into the garden, he felt something was wrong. The wind blew hot and then stilled; everything was too quiet. When Hiroshi found the house empty, he walked through the garden, following the path down to the pond. Immediately, it felt cooler in the shade of the willow trees and shrubbery. He began to understand why Haru and Takara spent so much time in the garden, squatting over some plant, delighting in every new discovery. The rustling birds sang out in the trees. He had just rounded the corner toward the pond when he stopped. At first, it appeared to be an obake, a ghost, wearing a bright red kimono, dangling in the air. His heart raced as he drew closer, recognizing it was Aki wearing the red kimono with white flowers hanging limply from the tree branch, her head cocked to one side. There was a stool turned over, a wooden sandal on the ground. Closer, he saw Aki’s bloated and distorted face, as her protruding eyes peered down at him accusingly, and Hiroshi felt his legs go weak. His voice was a strange, stunned moan as he called out, “No!” before his breath caught in his throat. The air was suffocating, or was it grief pressed heavily against his chest? He wrapped his arms around Aki’s legs and lifted her up, loosening the taut noose from her beautiful neck. The red, leathery rope burn had left an ugly necklace against her soft, pale skin. Her head fell forward and the past returned with its relentless power as he saw again Aki’s mother down by the river after the firestorm.
33
Change
1966
Hiroshi had skipped both the September and November Bashos following Aki’s death. Afterward, he began training again for the January tournament knowing it would be his last. His lack of focus, along with a waning desire to fight, had begun last year, even before Aki’s suicide. After her death, he had to transform the lethargy into something else; a way to get past the despair. Hiroshi always assumed he could make up the lost time with Aki when he retired, and now it was too late; all his unfulfilled promises had dissipated, leaving a lingering guilt. He somehow needed to put all his energy and concentration into this one last tournament before retiring.
After a morning of training, Hiroshi found Tanaka-oyakata upstairs in his office. Before, when he thought of retiring from sumo, the idea would lodge in his throat. Now he swallowed it with ease and sadness. He knocked. Tanaka looked up and motioned for him to come in. How many times had he sat in the small, crowded office across from Tanaka? His desk was buried in contracts, schedules, and a pile of tegata, the red ink handprints on shikishi white paper of his most popular wrestlers. Once they dried, each sumotori autographed his handprint. On top were Hiroshi’s; over the years his handprints had become as popular as those of Yokozuna Futabayama.
During the almost eight years of Hiroshi’s marriage to his daughter, Tanaka-oyakata had never changed, never showed any partiality in their working relationship. Only when they were with family did Hiroshi see Tanaka-san the father and grandfather. A tired smile crossed his father-in-law’s lips. “Hiroshi-san, what can I do for you?”
Tanaka was much thinner and older than the man he first met in his high school gym, almost twenty years before. Hiroshi bowed. “May I speak with you for a moment?” he asked.
“Of course, of course.” Tanaka pointed to the chair opposite his desk.
Hiroshi sat down and cleared his throat. The small office was warm and airless, a welcome change from the winter winds that whistled through the practice area downstairs.
“Is everything well with Takara?”
“She’s very well, thank you. Haru-san has been wonderful with her,” Hiroshi answered.
Tanaka nodded with a smile.
“I’ve come to speak to you about something else.”
Tanaka stacked his papers, leaned back, and gave Hiroshi his full attention. “What is it?”
“I’ve been thinking that it’s time for me to retire, what with Aki’s …”
Tanaka-oyakata ran his hand over his pate in thought. “Of course,” he said.
“And Takara’s growing up so quickly.”
“Hai.” Tanaka grunted then looked away. After a moment, he continued. “You’ve been one of the greatest yokozuna in the history of the sport. You’ve stayed longer than most sumotori. You’ve made the Katsuyama-beya very proud. You’ve made me very proud. I know Aki-chan was, too.”
When he finally looked at Hiroshi, his eyes were red-rimmed and moist. These were more words than Hiroshi had heard Tanaka-oyakata say in a long time. The room suddenly felt too small, suffocating. In that moment, the question Hiroshi had tried so hard to avoid all these months resonated through his mind. If he had retired earlier, could he have saved Aki?
He rose from the chair and bowed to Tanaka. “This will be my last tournament, then. The retirement ceremony can be held at the hanazumo in February.”
“Hai,” Tanaka-oyakata said. “It should give us enough time to prepare.”
His father-in-law stood up and bowed low to Hiroshi.
It snowed on the second Sunday of January, the start of the Hatsu Basho. Hiroshi awoke to the soft, tapping sounds and a whiteness that covered the earth like feathers and muffled the world around him. He might have fallen back asleep if he hadn’t heard Takara’s excited voice already at the front door, imagining Haru not far behind his young daughter. His first match was that afternoon and he was due at the stable for a short workout before going to the stadium. But for the moment, he lay perfectly still and listened.
When Hiroshi stepped onto the dohyo, frenzied shouts from the audience filled the stadium. He bowed low and automatically moved through the opening rituals. His opponent was the up-and-coming wrestler Ogawa, young and large, his girth spilling over his mawashi belt. Hiroshi knew he’d never win the tournament, much less the match, unless he found a balance within himself; the concentration and harmony that felt very far away since Aki’s death. He glanced up at the audience as he stepped toward the center of the ring and crouched down for the first round of stare-downs. He concentrated his stare on the fatty pockets just below the young wrestler’s eyes. Ogawa didn’t flinch, his eyes narrowing with determination.
The initial impact of his opponent’s body was hard and solid. Hiroshi stepped back but didn’t charge as he normally would. He felt lost in a haze and couldn’t move. The next hit from the young wrestler came quickly and sent him precariously close to the edge of the dohyo. Along with the sudden silence of the crowd, he heard Aki’s voice whisper in his ear, “What are you waiting for?” Hiroshi looked up and felt she was there. He had let her down so many times in life. It was, in the end, the last thing he could do for her in death, to win this tournament. When Ogawa charged at him again, Hiroshi reacted quickly and grabbed the wrestler’s mawashi belt, twisting around and pushing him out of the dohyo first.
The roar of the crowd was deafening.
The Wind
The wind blew sharp and cold as Haru walked in the garden with Takara. It was always the wind that carried the past back to her—unexpected and surprising each time—an icy whisper on her cheek that came with a winter breeze or a blustery day that sent leaves falling to the ground. Sometimes, it was a hot breath blown against the back of her neck, like a teasing voice or just a hint of the winds that had carried the inferno which had killed her mother and devastated her country so many years ago. It was an unforgiving wind that had left her hands without sensation and ended her childhood; a wind that had eventually taken Aki. However the winds came, they were invisible and eternal, something she’d never be able to grasp. The sharp winds now carried t
he scent of her mother’s narcissus perfume and a faraway trace of wood smoke. It wasn’t a sentimental wind but a clear and telling one.
Like her, Takara came alive among the plants and trees in the garden. The little girl ran down the path ahead of her. It felt as if the world around them were yawning awake, the garden filled with ume blossoms, the first blooms bursting white and pale pink against the blue sky. The new house Hiroshi had bought looked large and commanding. After Aki’s death, he sold their house in Shoto in the Shibuya Ward and returned to Yanaka and a traditional Japanese-style house using wood posts and beams, with overhanging eaves and a wraparound veranda. It was a lovely piece of property, tucked away from the noise of Tokyo, yet near enough to the heart of the city by train or car. When Haru stayed to help raise Takara, one wing of the house had been set aside for her. Hiroshi also left the details of the garden up to her, and she chose sakura, maple, and wisteria trees for both their beauty and intimacy. She and Takara wandered down long winding paths through a variety of bamboo, irises, and lilies surrounding the pond. She saw hints of Deer Park in every corner. In the distance, willows moved in the wind like young geisha in dance. Each turn brought a new surprise; everything discovered to be seen and enjoyed.
She knew Aki would have loved this house and garden, and the thought brought a sharp ache. She couldn’t imagine the pain Aki must have been in to leave Takara. She remembered the way her own grief after her sister’s death was filled with movement, in tending to Takara, in teaching her classes, and in taking care of the mountains of details. It was the details that saved her, storing Aki’s kimonos, packing her possessions, putting away her life.
And while Takara understood that her mother wouldn’t be returning, death was still too large a concept for a five-year-old to grasp. At first, Takara remained quiet, not voiceless as Aki had been after their mother’s death, but subdued, a stillness within her that was just as frightening. Haru saw her bewilderment. She stayed with her niece, slept in her room at night, and watched her carefully as the passing months gradually brought back her playful self again. Haru had always been a constant in Takara’s young life, both as aunt and mother, and she struggled with the pleasure and the guilt. Was Takara her second chance? Did it have to come at Aki’s expense? She flushed with the anger and the remorse of it; she hadn’t been able to pull Aki through the fire this time.
Still, Takara never ceased to surprise her. The other morning she heard her niece talking to someone in the garden, but there wasn’t anyone in sight.
“Who were you talking to?” she asked.
Takara looked at her, wide-eyed. “I was talking to okasan.”
“Was your mother here?”
Takara looked around the garden and answered, “She’s everywhere.”
Haru breathed in the cool, sweet air. She loved the approaching spring for all its possibilities. “Over here, over here!” she heard Takara call out. Haru pushed away her complicated thoughts. For today, she fully intended to live her life as it was given. She watched Takara examine the emerging blossoms, the newly unfurled leaves with a gentle, knowing hand. She stroked and held, never pinched or pulled. There was certainly something of Haru in Takara that would live on, and the thought brought her such happiness.
Fumiko
At the February hanazumo, Fumiko shifted in the seat of the tatami-lined box, which provided a small shelter from the crowds who had come to see Hiroshi’s retirement ceremony. It was hot and stuffy, and for a moment she was reminded of sitting in the cramped, airless bomb shelter her grandsons had dug during the war. Only it was too bright and she closed her eyes for just a moment, the noise and glare of the lights in the stadium forcing her to retreat within. Next to her, she felt Kenji’s body lean closer to her, the fall of his silk kimono sleeve against her hand. He was making sure she was all right. Across from her, Haru quieted Takara. “Come and sit down,” she said. The warm air stirred against her cheek when her great-granddaughter was pulled back into her seat. As always, they thought she had dozed off, and Fumiko understood now what Yoshio meant by seeing without seeing. Even with her eyes closed, she saw Takara’s smiling face and heard the low purr of Haru’s voice whispering for her to keep still. She resisted the urge to smile.
Ever since her grandsons were babies, Fumiko had endlessly worried that something might happen to them. They were so young and fragile when they came to her, and the ghost of Misako had lingered in every corner of her life. But Hiroshi and Kenji had survived, and she had lived to see their successes as well as their sorrows. How could she have ever known it was Mika’s and Aki’s deaths that would bring such grief? As Yoshio had always known, there was no way for her to protect them from life’s misfortunes. But maybe now, after so much tragedy in both of their lives, her grandsons would find joy again. She smiled at the thought. Hiroshi might finally realize that his happiness sat right across from her, in his daughter and Haru-san, while Kenji would find his way in time, she was certain of it.
“Are you awake, sosobo?” Takara’s voice rang out.
Fumiko opened her eyes slowly to the glare of the white lights, as she gradually focused on the face of her great-granddaughter watching her. She nodded and smiled, reached out to pull the child closer.
A Day of No Regrets
Hiroshi waited in the locker room to walk down the flower path to the dohyo for the last time. There, in the middle of the sumo ring, he would sit for his official danpatsu-shiki, the public haircutting ceremony that would signify his retirement at the age of thirty-seven. Hiroshi picked up the book of poetry by Basho that Kenji had given him and simply held it in his hands. His good-luck charm. He had memorized all the poems through the years to calm his nerves. But as he paced the length of the room, the weight of his white ceremonial belt tight around his waist, it was an old fable he remembered, and suddenly, he was a boy again listening to his grandmother. “… A very long time ago, a famous samurai, who came from a very poor family, had fought his way to the top, defending one of the richest landowners in Japan. But he still wasn’t happy. While he was fighting and protecting his master all those years, a young woman from his village whom he’d always loved had married someone else. When he returned home a wealthy warrior, it was to find that life had passed him by.”
As a boy, Hiroshi couldn’t understand why the samurai hadn’t found perfect harmony. How could life have passed him by if he was a samurai? A warrior. Hiroshi took a deep breath and stopped pacing. What he hadn’t understood as a boy, he now understood as a man. He struggled to remember the words his ojiichan told them so long ago. “Every day of your lives, you must always be sure what you’re fighting for.” While he had sustained a nation in his quest to be champion, he couldn’t save Aki.
Hiroshi walked down the flower aisle, the stadium filled to capacity, the roar of voices like a wave crashing. His retirement was being televised; everyone from city officials to sponsors and fans had come to see the great Yokozuna Takanoyama perform his final dohyo-ri. He marveled that most could see it at home in black-and-white. Tanaka-oyakata, Tokohashi, Sadao, the rest of his stable’s wrestlers sat at ringside. His family watched from box seats.
The audience quieted as he stepped up to the dohyo to perform his last ring-entering ceremony, attended by Kobayashi and Wakahara, the only other yokozuna-ranked wrestlers. Dressed in their white ceremonial belts, he imagined the three of them were quite a spectacle framed within each small television. Hiroshi glanced up at the audience to let his grandmother know he was thinking of her. Then he moved through each step of the dance—the leg lifts and squats, his arms outstretched, each move bringing him closer to the finality of it—already memorizing the feel of the smooth, cool clay underfoot.
Afterward, Hiroshi changed into his formal haori jacket and a pair of pleated pants before he returned to sit in the middle of the dohyo. An attendant stood at his side with a pair of long, gold scissors on a tray. Assisted by the referee, Sadao and other selected sekitori-ranked wrestlers, sponsors, coache
s, and Kenji each took their turns snipping off a few strands of his chonmage. Hiroshi sat stone-still under the hot lights of the stadium, his oiled hair glistening, his shirt wet against his back. Eventually, Tanaka-oyakata made the final cut of Hiroshi’s topknot and severed the last threads that tied him to sumo, the sport he had loved since boyhood. Hiroshi was stunned by the thunderous clapping, an entire life ended with the cutting of his topknot. He could barely swallow. As he stood, his emotions lodged at the back of his throat.
Finally, both he and Tanaka-oyakata bowed respectfully to the audience, turning to each of the four sides of the arena. His unkempt hair fell across his forehead and covered his eyes so no one could see he was fighting back tears. He turned to his right and bowed again. Everything he had worked for came down to this final moment in time. Hanging from the ceiling, his large portrait had a place among all the other past champions and grand champions. He felt strangely distant from the sumotori who stared back at him, his nonsmiling gaze already a part of history.
Hiroshi turned and bowed again. He looked past the glare of lights to see the box seats where Kenji sat next to his smiling obaachan, to see little Takara leaning forward and waving to him, to see Haru, always Haru, her hands no longer hidden, poised to grab his daughter if she should fall, if he should fall. And in the warm, thick air, he felt his ojiichan’s and Aki’s spirits also there, watching.