Read Online The Street of a Thousand Blossoms by Gail Tsukiyama - Free Book Online
Authors: Gail Tsukiyama
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Yoshiwara turned to him. “Kenji Matsumoto.”
Kenji bowed low to Matsui-sama. It was the first time Yoshiwara had said anything about his work. He felt the blood rush to his head with the suddenness of his sensei’s praise.
“And how did you enjoy our performance?” Matsui asked.
Kenji felt his face burn and he quickly bowed again. For the entire performance, he had felt suspended above his real life—his troubles with the other boys at school, the seed of fear planted in the middle of his stomach since the China war began, even his hunger had suddenly subsided as if by magic. “I found it the most moving performance I’ve ever seen.”
Matsui laughed. “Yoshiwara-san, I don’t know what kind of mask maker this boy is, but he certainly knows how to praise the actor behind the mask!”
With that, the entire group laughed. Kenji swallowed with relief when he looked up to find that attention had shifted and Matsui was already greeting other admirers.
A month after seeing Matsui’s performance, when Kenji entered the warm shop one November afternoon, Yoshiwara unexpectedly stopped working and asked, “What are the two categories of masks?”
Kenji put down his schoolbooks on the table, watched the wood dust rise into the air. It was like a test, he thought, but one he wanted to take. “The two categories of Noh masks are male and female.”
“They are?” Yoshiwara glanced up, eyed him closely and waited.
Kenji wet his lips, pushed his hair away from his eyes. “The four categories of male masks are the
Okina
, human, ghost, and spirit and demon masks. The two categories of the female masks are the human and the ghost and spirit masks.”
Yoshiwara nodded and smiled. “Good, you pass for today.”
Then he was silent again.
And what if Kenji didn’t know the answers to Yoshiwara’s questions tomorrow? He took a deep breath, picked up the broom, and began to sweep away the wood shavings. Nazo suddenly jumped out in front of him, his body arching as he rubbed up against his legs, reassuring him that he would.
Battle March
When Hiroshi arrived at practice on a chilly December morning, he found another man standing next to his coach, dressed in an expensive dark blue silk brocade kimono, rather than a cotton
yukata
. He was a big man, even taller than Masuda-san, though he was thinner and carried himself well. He watched Hiroshi at practice while casually chatting with Masuda-san. Ignoring the audience, Hiroshi concentrated on his match as he twisted his body to the right and moved quickly out of the way as his opponent charged at him, missing the tackle and stepping out of bounds.
For the past year his coach had taken a real interest in Hiroshi’s skill and speed as a wrestler. Every day at practice, Masuda-san watched him intently and seemed to encourage him more than any other student. “Ah, you see,” he told the other boys gathered aroundduring physical education. “Hiroshi understands how to use his body—the power of it must be controlled, channeled seamlessly into the movements. Did you see how he used his opponent’s weight and force against him?” The boys bowed their heads, stifling their laughter. Many of them thought Masuda-san strange; he was a large man and it was rumored he once hoped to be a
rikishi
, but hadn’t skill enough to succeed and remain within a stable. His past was evident in his small office, crowded with his wrestling trophies and certificates, but most intriguing to Hiroshi were the photos of
sumotori
that lined the wall—their bulky, imposing bodies filling the space around them.
As Hiroshi continued to train, he began to see sumo as more than just a sport—it was deeply rooted in the Japanese culture, and he loved the dance of it all: the small expressions of tradition and ritual, the power water and cleansing salt Masuda-san always had at practice. Hiroshi had taken to it as if the holds that brought his opponent to the ground were as natural as walking. In
Kenji bowed low to Matsui-sama. It was the first time Yoshiwara had said anything about his work. He felt the blood rush to his head with the suddenness of his sensei’s praise.
“And how did you enjoy our performance?” Matsui asked.
Kenji felt his face burn and he quickly bowed again. For the entire performance, he had felt suspended above his real life—his troubles with the other boys at school, the seed of fear planted in the middle of his stomach since the China war began, even his hunger had suddenly subsided as if by magic. “I found it the most moving performance I’ve ever seen.”
Matsui laughed. “Yoshiwara-san, I don’t know what kind of mask maker this boy is, but he certainly knows how to praise the actor behind the mask!”
With that, the entire group laughed. Kenji swallowed with relief when he looked up to find that attention had shifted and Matsui was already greeting other admirers.
A month after seeing Matsui’s performance, when Kenji entered the warm shop one November afternoon, Yoshiwara unexpectedly stopped working and asked, “What are the two categories of masks?”
Kenji put down his schoolbooks on the table, watched the wood dust rise into the air. It was like a test, he thought, but one he wanted to take. “The two categories of Noh masks are male and female.”
“They are?” Yoshiwara glanced up, eyed him closely and waited.
Kenji wet his lips, pushed his hair away from his eyes. “The four categories of male masks are the
Okina
, human, ghost, and spirit and demon masks. The two categories of the female masks are the human and the ghost and spirit masks.”
Yoshiwara nodded and smiled. “Good, you pass for today.”
Then he was silent again.
And what if Kenji didn’t know the answers to Yoshiwara’s questions tomorrow? He took a deep breath, picked up the broom, and began to sweep away the wood shavings. Nazo suddenly jumped out in front of him, his body arching as he rubbed up against his legs, reassuring him that he would.
Battle March
When Hiroshi arrived at practice on a chilly December morning, he found another man standing next to his coach, dressed in an expensive dark blue silk brocade kimono, rather than a cotton
yukata
. He was a big man, even taller than Masuda-san, though he was thinner and carried himself well. He watched Hiroshi at practice while casually chatting with Masuda-san. Ignoring the audience, Hiroshi concentrated on his match as he twisted his body to the right and moved quickly out of the way as his opponent charged at him, missing the tackle and stepping out of bounds.
For the past year his coach had taken a real interest in Hiroshi’s skill and speed as a wrestler. Every day at practice, Masuda-san watched him intently and seemed to encourage him more than any other student. “Ah, you see,” he told the other boys gathered aroundduring physical education. “Hiroshi understands how to use his body—the power of it must be controlled, channeled seamlessly into the movements. Did you see how he used his opponent’s weight and force against him?” The boys bowed their heads, stifling their laughter. Many of them thought Masuda-san strange; he was a large man and it was rumored he once hoped to be a
rikishi
, but hadn’t skill enough to succeed and remain within a stable. His past was evident in his small office, crowded with his wrestling trophies and certificates, but most intriguing to Hiroshi were the photos of
sumotori
that lined the wall—their bulky, imposing bodies filling the space around them.
As Hiroshi continued to train, he began to see sumo as more than just a sport—it was deeply rooted in the Japanese culture, and he loved the dance of it all: the small expressions of tradition and ritual, the power water and cleansing salt Masuda-san always had at practice. Hiroshi had taken to it as if the holds that brought his opponent to the ground were as natural as walking. In
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