Dolls of Hope (15 page)

“Dolls?” Hoshi asked, looking at her father with disbelief breaking her usual composure. “You would visit dolls,
Otousama
?”

“Our Japanese dolls carry our history,” he said with a glance around the table. “They tell the story of our people, from the little cylindrical
kokeshi
dolls the farmers’ daughters enjoy to the larger ambassador dolls you will be meeting today.”

As Chiyo thought of Momo, left behind at school to prevent charcoal from smearing her uniform, Hana said, “I have a
kokeshi
doll. I wonder why they are not made with arms or legs.”

Oki-sensei gave her a
You have not been asked to speak
look but answered anyway. “Cylindrical dolls with ball heads are less expensive to make.”

“There is beauty in simplicity,” General Miyamoto said. “Each hand-painted face on a
kokeshi
is individual in its way, though the dolls may be very similar.”

Chiyo glanced at Hoshi and saw a storm in her eyes, although she kept her expression calm. She was not thinking of Momo. Her anger said she did not like sharing her father’s attention.

After a rickshaw tour of several shrines and lunch in a noodle house, they climbed into rickshaws again to ride to the doll maker’s home studio in the heart of the city. As they traveled, Oki-sensei pointed out the drifting fragrance of newly blooming peach trees. “A good sign,” Sensei said firmly. “Peach blossoms indicate serenity and gentle manners, traits very proper for young ladies.”

“Breathe deeply,” Chiyo whispered to Hana. “Then you will become proper.”

Hana giggled. “That’s all it takes? Breathing? I can do that!” She made such a show of inhaling deeply, she began to cough.

Chiyo teased, “You’re as allergic to serenity as the flappers we saw that first day.”

Hana put a hand over her mouth to cover a smile, but amusement sparkled from her bright eyes. They both knew what Sensei thought of flappers.

The rickshaws clattered across a bridge Chiyo recognized. They were near the railroad station. She couldn’t help mentally following the rails back to Tsuchiura and the road home.

In the mountains, it would be colder than here where the land was so much lower, but
Otousan
would be preparing to plant his field. Longing ached through her. She should be there, helping.

Hana laughed suddenly at two dogs playing in the street, and the moment of sadness slipped away. Chiyo laughed with her for the excitement ahead, for the perfumed air carrying serenity, and for two dogs chasing each other.

Old houses lined one side of the street now.
Grandparents,
Chiyo thought,
settled comfortably while watching the high stone walls of modern buildings grow like ambitious children across the way.

The rickshaw bearers came to a stop before an older house that looked dark and mysterious. Aged wood creaked with a rising wind that signaled coming rain. The roof of the doll maker’s house sloped down on each side of shuttered windows.

While the teachers spoke with the rickshaw bearers, Chiyo and the others stepped onto a flat gray stone stretching to the front door. Eagerness had pushed Chiyo ahead, but now she stopped, suddenly shy.

“Ring the bell,” Hana urged from just behind her.

He may be as severe a man as General Miyamoto,
Chiyo told herself, edging back. “You ring it.”

H
oshi nudged her forward. “Ring the bell, girl-who-met-the-mayor.”

Chiyo stumbled and flung one hand out for balance. Her fingers hit the bell.

“Your manners!” Oki-sensei protested just as the door slid open. A woman looked out at them, her brows coming together in a frown.

Watanabe-sensei stepped past the others. “Here are Tamura Chiyo and her friends from Tsuchiura Girls’ School. The mayor arranged for them to meet with Hirata-san.”

The woman made no move to let them pass. “I am Mrs. Sasaki, his housekeeper. You understand he is a busy man.”

Hana whispered to Chiyo, “Step forward. Let her know you will not apologize or leave.”

Chiyo shook her head, wishing she were anywhere else.

Sensei spoke in a firm tone he might use with a reluctant student. “These girls have come a long way.”

The woman’s frown deepened. “Hirata-san is very busy, but he is kind and has set aside his important work to spare a few minutes.” Stepping back into a polished entry hall, she waited, radiating displeasure over the interruption of their visit while the girls quickly removed their shoes and set them to one side.

After snapping open an elegant
fusuma
screen, Mrs. Sasaki motioned the group to follow.

“She is proud of him,” Chiyo whispered to Hana, “but she worries about him, too.”

Hana whispered back, “She is his oni.”

Chiyo giggled, agreeing. “
Hai,
his gatekeeper demon.”

They hurried in their stockings after the woman, hushed by her disapproval. Chiyo glanced at painted
fusuma
screens as mysterious as lids to treasure boxes. Did the rooms beyond hold beautiful dolls in elaborate kimonos?

A second doorway opened into a workshop. Parts of dolls crowded shelves and tabletops and hung from hooks. One table held a clutter of small jars surrounded by colorful spatters of paint. Brushes of different sizes crowded other jars.

A man much younger than
Otousan
rose from a stool. Wood chips, chisels, and unfinished doll heads waited on a workbench beside him. Nothing like the severe artist Chiyo had expected, he looked as dashing as a samurai, with thick dark hair and dark eyes. Instead of a warrior’s protective gear, he wore a paint-spattered apron over a soft tunic and trousers. “Come in, come in,” he greeted them, smiling. “You are welcome, all of you!”

As they returned his bow, he asked the teachers, “Now, which is the girl from the picture I see posted everywhere?” His glance reached Chiyo and his smile deepened. “Ah, yes. I am honored to welcome you, Miss Tamura.” He bowed again, especially for her.

Feeling clumsy over being singled out, Chiyo returned the bow. She was keenly aware of the other girls watching, especially Hoshi.

“You have all seen the dolls from America?” he asked. “You are fortunate. I have not yet had that pleasure.”

Hana spoke despite a warning gesture from Oki-sensei. “Chiyo has one of them. We all held her. She says ‘Mama.’”

“She is not mine, Hirata-san,” Chiyo said, quick to explain. “The mayor arranged for Emily Grace to go to our school. I am to keep her safe.”

“Emily Grace is the doll photographed with you? So she is to go to your school.” He nodded approval. “Our mayor has made a wise decision.”

When he took them around the workshop, explaining his various tools and their uses, Chiyo looked curiously at a bin filled with rough oyster shells. The doll maker was quick to notice her interest. He seemed often to be studying her.

“You are wondering what oysters have to do with doll making, Miss Tamura? There is magic here. When the oyster shell has been ground into powder with other materials and properly colored, it becomes
gofun,
a coating I will paint in many layers over the doll’s face, hands, and feet.”

He picked up a smaller finished doll and pointed out the pale coloring of her face. “Here you see the oyster shell has become the doll’s natural-looking skin.”

To Chiyo, the doll could not have looked more delicate if the entire head were made of china. Imagine rough oyster shells becoming the smooth skin of a doll!

The doll maker turned to the high table where he had been working when they came in. An electric lantern cast a bright glow over a block of wood shaped vaguely like the head of a young child. “As you see, I have only blocked out the head. I have been looking for the right expression to carve into the doll to become Miss Tokyo.”

They were all disappointed to learn that the doll was not yet finished, but the doll maker let them hold her hands, already carved of light wood.

“They even have dimples over their knuckles,” Hana marveled.

Shizuko held up a doll hand. “Look! Perfect little fingernails!”

“When they are finished and covered in flesh-tinted
gofun,
” the doll maker told them, “the hands will look so real you will think the fingers might curl around your own.”

“What will she wear, Hirata-san?” asked Kimiko.

The doll maker removed a length of rose-colored silk from a cabinet. When he unfolded the material, they saw a kimono that might fit a small child. “The imperial dressmaker selected the fabric,” he explained. “Do you see the hand-painted lotus blossoms? Designs chosen for each of the doll’s kimonos must be suited for her smaller size.”

He reached into the cabinet again for a brocade obi, along with a rope-like
obi-jime
to tie around the obi and hold the large bow in place at the back.

When they had admired those, the doll maker invited each of them to choose a
kokeshi
doll from a bin. Even Hoshi looked with interest at the little cylindrical figures with their ball-shaped heads. Although Hoshi’s smile was as rare as her father’s, one appeared briefly.

Chiyo wondered if she had already forgotten Momo and the gardener’s fire.

“Many accessories will travel with Miss Tokyo,” the doll maker told them. “She is to have a large round box to hold her tea sets and a long one filled with other items she will need.”

He turned to the girls, his eyes lighting up. “Perhaps you can help me. Suppose Miss Tokyo was your little sister. Besides tea sets, small tables, and lanterns, what would you send along for her comfort?”

“Dolls,” Hana said at once.

Chiyo agreed. “She should have a small doll of her own to keep her company. She can talk of home and the doll will understand, even when she’s sad.”

“Especially when she’s sad,” Hana said.

“Two dolls,” Kimiko suggested. “She should take a boy and a girl doll to show to the American children.”

“Worthy ideas.” The doll maker opened a tall cabinet with several finished smaller dolls on the shelves. “I will be pleased to have you decide which two dolls should travel to America with Miss Tokyo.”

To Chiyo, accustomed to small
kokeshi
dolls, those in the cabinet were like living children, with gentle faces and serene expressions. “Their hair looks real,” she said.

The doll maker chuckled. “Their wigs are made of human hair. Miss Tokyo will have natural hair as well.”

Calm brown glass eyes with painted lower lashes and brush-stroked eyebrows on the nearest doll made Chiyo feel as if the doll gazed back at her with a soft smile curving her lips. “She is perfect,” she murmured, and felt a twinge of guilt, as if her comment betrayed Emily Grace.

“Arigatogozaimasu,
Miss Tamura. As with any doll artist, I try to understand the heart of each doll I create. This helps me paint her expression in a way that will bring her to life for her young owner.”

He said to the two teachers, “As I mentioned before, I have been searching for the look that will be right for Miss Tokyo. I have found it.” He turned to Chiyo. “Miss Tamura, will you honor me by posing for several sketches? I will use them later as guides to help me complete the doll.”

H
irata Gouyou wanted to put her face on Miss Tokyo! Chiyo nodded, too astonished to speak.

“
Hai.
It will be so,” the doll maker exclaimed. “Mrs. Sasaki, when the young ladies have chosen the two dolls to travel with Miss Tokyo, please direct them to the garden, where they may enjoy a cup of tea.”

He beamed at the teachers. “I have been searching for a subtle sweetness of expression for this doll. It is difficult to explain in words, but I knew I would recognize it when I saw it.”

“In Miss Tamura?” Oki-sensei asked, as if unable to believe such a thing.

“Hai.
At last, I have found the model I need.” The artist gazed at Chiyo. “The doll must have a glow of inner strength and yet show the gentleness we see in our Japanese girls.”

He studied Chiyo as if memorizing the curve of her cheek and the shape of her eyes. “I see those qualities in Tamura Chiyo. Her face will become Miss Tokyo.”

Watanabe-sensei smiled. “What do you think of a doll that looks like you traveling to America, Miss Tamura?”