The Mask Carver's Son (20 page)

I did not want to think about the grave injustice I was doing in selling the masks to someone outside Japan. Even worse, I was betraying my family. My father. What I was about to do was as terrible as thrusting a sword into his belly. As I had done before I left for Tokyo. Had I twisted the dagger and scalded the blade before piercing him, what I was doing now could not have been more painful to him. To his memory.

But what else could I do?

I was alone in this world now. Yet how was my life that different from when he had lived? Then too I was alone. A small boy surrounded by ghosts. My father had never embraced me, I thought to myself, and my bitterness surprised me. He had never placed me above his carving, showered me with the love he lavished over his masks.

“I appreciate your advice, but I still wish to sell them,” I told Shimakawa flatly. I cast my eyes down at him. He remained, crouching over the masks, his knees pressed to the floor. “I need twenty purses of gold, however.”

“Twenty?” Shimakawa gasped. “I told you I can offer you no more than seventeen!”

“I am sorry, then,” I said firmly, knowing that he would acquiesce in the end.

He paused for several moments, and I saw that his eyes rolled upward, as if he was envisioning an abacus and counting in midair.

“All right, then. Twenty purses of gold. I will visit you tomorrow and bring the gold then.” He rose to his feet and extended a deep, reverent bow.

“Yes, then. Until tomorrow.”

I stood there now alone in our lonely house, having nearly vanquished any remaining feelings of guilt.

I went outside to the
engawa
and dangled my feet over the ledge. The distant peak of Daigo reminded me how far I was from Noboru. I thought how comforting it would have been to have him here with me. I missed the sight of his small robust body, the smell of sweet red bean paste on his breath. I missed seeing his tiny alabaster hands, as white as polished jade, protruding from his sleeves. Perfect when they clutched a piece of charcoal. Elegant as they grasped the slender handle of a brush. Whisking through the air like emancipated doves. Flying and finally falling on the pedestal of my knee.

I closed my eyes and tried to bring his memory to these hills of my childhood. To mingle here with me and my ghosts. To stroke my empty body. To fill me with his laughter. With him.

I
t was difficult for me to imagine that, if I indeed traveled to Europe, Noboru might not be able to join me. His companionship in Tokyo had made me feel stronger and more whole. The boy I had been when I left Kyoto had returned a man. Noboru had awakened me. I had become aware of my desires and myself. He had enabled me to believe that I had the talent necessary to pursue a life of painting. He had listened to me as a friend, lover, or father might. With open ears and a kind heart. Giving me the space to dream, to confide, and to love.

If he was not at my side, I could still imagine him. I could call him up from the recesses of my mind, the ventricles of my heart. I carried him as I carried my ghosts. With the same reverence, but with the ecstasy that he lived and breathed. That he was truly my friend. That he lived and touched. That he spoke and laughed. That he looked deep into me, with black pupils trimmed in orange light.

When I spoke to him of my desire to paint, he listened with the intensity of a priest, his eyes looking intently into me. I recalled Noboru nodding and smiling, agreeing in the silence of my Tokyo room.

“You and I share the same dreams, Kiyoki,” he replied, his gaze glimmering in the twilight. The sight of our two faces next to each other. White as stars. All of our hopes binding us to each other. His fingers running through my hair, as I had always imagined those of my father. The sensation somewhat unexpected. Different. Yet welcomed. The embrace I had always yearned for. But now the smells were not of cypress and steely blade, but of turpentine and dark black ink. Swallowing me. Swallowing me whole.

*   *   *

The wind rustling through the naked trees awakened me. I felt the lonely sweep of darkness across the garden and pulled the cloth of my robe tighter across my form. I could not imagine going to France without Noboru, and yet I knew I would have only enough money for my own passage and my own expenses there.

I would not have enough to take him along. But now that I had found him, I knew I did not have the strength to leave him.

He had become my sustenance. I could not pack him away and sell him off as I had done with my memories and my ghosts.

*   *   *

February 3, 1896, marked my fiftieth day of mourning for my father and, as custom dictated, the last day of my official grieving period. Having negotiated the sale of our house and Father’s mask collection, I prepared myself for my return to Tokyo.

I walked out of our gate for the last time and swept my hand over the sagging wooden fence. I bowed my head as I turned once more to gaze at the small carved pigeons on our roof’s peak, and tilted my chin upward to meet the white crest of the mountain.

I had many more boxes and satchels with me than when I arrived almost two months before. Now, when I boarded the train at Kyoto station, I carried with me Mother’s kimono, Father’s chisels, and their wedding coverlet. And the mask with only eyes.

N
oboru met me at the station. I smiled when I saw him standing there. He was wearing his navy blue kimono, his hair black and oiled sleekly away from his face.

The two of us must have looked rather strange in our extremely somber robes. Noboru, so small that he could have been my son, helping me with my bags.

“You look tired, Kiyoki,” he said tenderly, his voice floating over me, light and delicious like jasmine.

“It has been a long journey, but it is good to be back.” The sound of the locomotive’s engine retreated into the background.

“School has been quite dreadful without you,” he sighed. “I imagine you will have a lot of catching up to do, but don’t worry, I’ll help you as best I can.”

I smiled and relished the sight of him at my side.

“You must come back to my room for tea,” I insisted as we loaded my satchels and
furoshiki
into one of two rickshaws that he had paid to wait for me.

I saw the eyes of Father’s unfinished Ishi-O-Jo mask peeking through the cloth wrapping.

“San no ichi Higashi Terauchi cho!”
Noboru called to the man who was to carry us. The driver’s strong back arched in front of us as he began a quick trot into Tokyo’s bustling streets. The wind rushed in our hair, and our kimonos billowed behind us.

*   *   *

Ariyoshi was out in the garden when we arrived.

“Hello, Yamamoto-sama!” he hollered to me as I withdrew my packages and handed the fare to the driver. “It has been a long time. I hope you had a pleasant journey. A good return to you!” As I walked closer, my mourning robe still cloaking my slender form, he whispered “My deepest regrets regarding your father.” I nodded to him, acknowledging his sympathy with the slight bowing of my head.

Noboru held two of my
furoshiki
and nodded to Ariyoshi as we passed through the inner gate and into the inner hall.

“I’ll make us some tea,” I said to him as he placed the parcels on the dry tatami floor. Noboru always complimented my
o-cha
, saying that he could close his eyes and imagine the cherry blossoms of Tetsugaku no Michi, the splendid road speckled with
sakura
, the only memory he had of Kyoto. A vision not his own, but stolen from a page of one of his mother’s books. An image captured by the hand of a woodblock artist. And one that he had tried to re-create time and time again with his own brush and paper.

I was happy that I had brought back some of my favorite tea leaves from Kyoto, since I had already exhausted my initial supply several months before. I prepared the water, making sure that it was hot, but had not quite reached a boil, and then poured it over the small mound of tea leaves piled in my ceramic teapot.

Noboru was sitting neatly on the tatami, his legs folded squarely beneath him. I brought the two cups of tea over to where he was seated.

“Noboru,” I said, as I slid the tea over the table and positioned myself across from him.

“Yes.” He was so happy to see me. His face was shining like a winter moon. His lips curled over the rim of the steaming cup, moistening his skin with small crystal beads of condensation.

“I have something to tell you . . . Something quite serious.”

His smile vanished.

“With the death of my father, I now have enough money to pursue my studies in France. But I cannot envision myself without you. It is a journey that we should make together.” I paused, hoping to hear some sort of sign from him. But he remained silent. “I have decided to wait, Noboru,” I said solemnly, “until you have enough money to accompany me.” I tried to feign a smile. “Then we will go to France together!”

Noboru, however, did not react as I had anticipated.

He avoided my gaze. His eyes now focused on the steaming tea, the floating leaves, the greenness of the water; his lips curled. His chin remained flat to his chest.

“If you have the funds to make this journey, Kiyoki,” he said softly, “I suggest you do it now and not wait for me.”

“What?” I asked incredulously. “I would never do such a thing. I’ll wait as long as it takes,” I insisted.

“I will never have enough money, Kiyoki. I cannot imagine how you ever thought I would be able to gather such a sum of money.”

His tone betrayed his embarrassment.

“I did not mean it like that,” I said. “I will help you, I will do something to gather more funds.” My voice rushed, revealing my desperation.

Noboru, however, continued to gaze at me, his demeanor resigned, his mind already leashed in practicality.

“Kiyoki, you know that my uncle subsidizes my studies here in Tokyo and that he could never afford to send me to Europe. Nor would I ever ask him. I am grateful for what I have here.”

“And our dreams? Our aspirations to study abroad, to walk through the Louvre and paint the Seine?” I was the one sounding betrayed. My words were rushing, and my face was flushed with confusion.

“Kiyoki, it is simple. You must go for both of us. I will stay here and finish my studies. Now that Kuroda Seiki has returned, perhaps I will have the opportunity to join his atelier. Do not worry for me. I will find a way to receive the education I need.”

I stared at the beads of condensation forming on his upper lip and forehead. I wanted to offer him my handkerchief, but I knew it would make the moment even more awkward.

“This isn’t how I imagined it would be,” I whispered. I picked up my tea and discovered it was now cold.

In my mind, I wanted to tell him that I would miss him, to reiterate once more that I couldn’t imagine what the journey and the experience would be like without him. But I chose to remain silent for the rest of the evening. I thought that if he could read my silence, he would understand more fully.

Later I would tell him once more that I would not make the journey without him.

“Kiyoki, you are acting ridiculously! This is your chance to receive the education and experience you need to be a great painter.” His eyes were glowing in the twilight. “I feel very rude in admitting this to you, but Morita sensei confided to me that if all goes well next year, I will be promoted to the accelerated class. You, Kiyoki, are extremely talented. In my eyes, far more talented than I, but Saito sensei has an acute dislike for you that will hurt your chances of entering the classes that focus on the new style. If, however, you go to France, you will receive the training that you deserve. I see absolutely no question on the matter, especially since you now have the money to make the journey.”

As much as his words pained me, I knew he was right. My chances of being accepted to the accelerated program were slim at best.

Noboru assured me that he would help me make the necessary arrangements. My journey would require several months of preparation, and Noboru encouraged me to start working on my plans at once. First, I would have to begin studying the French language immediately. He promised he would look in the school library for a good text. But before everything, Noboru urged me to write a letter to Takada Ryuiichi, a student whom his uncle had tutored and who was presently studying French language and history in Paris. “Takada will be your guide,” Noboru whispered to me that evening. “He has already gone through what you are about to venture.” It was evening and I dragged the futon from the closet and onto the floor. We both untied our kimonos and slid underneath the heavy white blanket. I discovered his bare arm gliding over my naked chest. I shivered.

I was drowning in his exquisite perfume. The smell of smoked birch and overripe persimmon was rising off his skin. Intoxicated, I swam into his embrace, as I had imagined myself countless times before in the waters of my mother’s womb. I wanted to forget that I would be on a ship, casting off to another place all too soon. It all seemed too far away to conceive at that moment. So I closed my eyes and took comfort in the company of my dearest friend as I desperately tried to push the approaching morning out of sight.

I
t took ten months to settle all of the necessary arrangements. I received a response to my letter to Takada in the spring, and we continued the correspondence through the summer. He was extremely helpful, and assured me that once I arrived in Paris he could introduce me to a friend who was studying at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. This man, Hashimoto, would perhaps be able to introduce me to an instructor who might be willing to take me on as a student. There were already quite a few Japanese in Paris studying art, he explained, and I should try to meet them in person. They were an unusual crowd, very mixed in temperament. Some, he added, would go out almost every night, spending countless hours discussing art. In one of Takada’s letters, he described how he had been sitting in a small café on the Rue du Bac, when he realized he was hearing his own language from a nearby table. The melody of the Japanese, however, was continually broken by a strange word—
impureshunisumu
. Takada could not discern whether it was a French word or just a word that he was unfamiliar with in his own language. He soon realized that the word
impureshunisumu
was in fact the word “Impressionism” converted into a Japanese word. These four Japanese men, who donned only black clothing, had adopted the word into their own vernacular, as it was now something in their everyday life.

Like Noboru, Takada encouraged me to study French as much as my spare time allowed before I departed. And thus, after I had completed my second semester at school and registered at the administrative offices for a temporary leave of absence, I began, with great academic fervor, my study of this foreign language.

My relationship with the French language was one of great frustration and little reward. The few textbooks that were available at the time were sufficient in teaching me the alphabet and the rudimentary grammar, but gave little instruction on pronunciation. But unlike many Japanese who arrived in France after having studied the language at home, and found themselves in a state of shock when no one could understand them, I knew beforehand. I knew that I could not say
madame, demain, Je voudrais aller à Paris
. My tongue was unable to roll the
r
, and I had absolutely no idea how to pronounce the letter
v
. When I spoke, it sounded like “Mahdom, dehman, Je boodlay ahler a Pali.”

Noboru could not help me. He had never heard French spoken, and since it was the middle of the summer holidays, we could not ask anyone at the college. I decided to write again to Takada and tell him about my difficulties. He responded with a short note:

August 11, 1896

Paris, France

Dear Yamamoto-san,

The heat continues here, yet I am still able to find beauty in this magical city of carved stone walls and geranium-laced windows. I am so happy to hear that you will be arriving in September; it will be so nice to have another Japanese here in Paris. You mentioned in your last letter that you are having difficulty speaking French. I fear that there is little advice that I can give you except to keep trying. When you arrive in France, that persistence and dedication to the language will be tremendously beneficial to you.

I assume that you will be taking the boat from Yokohama to Marseilles and then the train to Paris. Please send me the time of your arrival and I will be more than happy to meet you at the station.

Regards,

Takada Ryuiichi

It was a comfort to know that Takada would be there to meet me. It would be a three-week journey by boat until I reached the port of Marseilles; thereafter, the train to Paris would require another full day of traveling.

I had exactly two weeks before my departure. I had accomplished most of my errands and completed all of the necessary arrangements, but had yet to come to terms with leaving Noboru in Tokyo. It remained an abstract reality, one that I knew would be all too real when he said good-bye to me at the boat. Because of my self-delusion, the days in between were spent without any overhanging clouds of melancholia. I truly believed that if Noboru could not leave for France with me on the day of my own departure, he would come eventually.

He would come. I would find him at my doorstep, his eyes would be bloodshot, and his body would seem even smaller from the strain of the long journey. But he would be there with his sketchbook, his paints, and his small leather suitcase. He would be there, in my living room, telling me that they had canceled the accelerated program and he knew that he had to follow his heart and come to France. He would ask if it was an inconvenience if he stayed with me until he found a place of his own. And I, remembering the sensation of his arm on my chest, would insist that he should stay with me forever, that his own place was not at all necessary.

In the mornings, we would walk to our teacher’s atelier together. The Parisian sunlight would bathe us in its warm golden light; the wet, balmy air that rose from the watery veins of the Seine would clear our nasal passages and invigorate our lungs. We would carry our leather portfolios, heavy with our bounty of sketches. Our footsteps would echo on the pavement of this great city that almost every great artist had trod upon. Our shadows would hang on the walls of all the fashionable cafés, while our bodies reclined among the intellectuals, the struggling painters, and the poets, our lips touching the rims of champagne glasses. With Noboru at my side, I would not feel obliged to talk; he would entertain the others with his inexhaustible charm and wit. In my silence, I would be lost in my own world of happiness and freedom. Everything would be in harmony.

*   *   *

I was scheduled to sail to France at three in the afternoon on the first Saturday of September in the year 1896.

The boat docked in the port of Yokohama the night before I was to leave. That evening, as I lay awake in my futon, my satchels already packed, I could imagine the sound of the anchor dropping. The heavy iron chain falling into the ocean, the long twisting ropes glistening like golden cords.

I saw myself at the gangway, dressed in my brown woolen suit, waistcoat buttoned, shirt white and unfamiliar billowing under my jacket, like the white clouds of smoke puffing from the great chimneys of the steamer.

The next morning I found myself at the dock, my reflection mirroring the image I imagined. I wore a black bowler that partially covered my ears, and the glare of the midday sun swept over my face like a fierce brushstroke of white.

Noboru had come to meet me. Such contrast. He in his dark blue kimono, wrapped as tightly as a small package, standing by my side.

“You look so elegant in your suit,” he mused. He had helped me pick it out the week before at one of the stores in the Ginza that specialized in Western clothes and accessories. It was his way of turning the conversation away from my imminent departure. He looked strained, his sadness waxing across his face like a large black shadow over a once shining moon.

I stared at him from the corner of my eye, hoping to capture one last memory of him before my departure. I wanted to press his image into the files of my mind, the ruby color of his lips, the thickness of his lashes, the cowlick curling ever so slightly among his sea of razor-sharp locks. I wanted to capture the sweetness of his fragrance in a clear glass jar. To seal it away forever, like a child who wishes to preserve the light of fireflies. I wished to hold on to everything of him, for always.

But he stood there stoically. I saw the wind travel into the sleeves of his kimono and undulate in small ripples down the ocean of his cloth. His strong jaw, cocked high, echoed the sharp lines of the ship. His eyes looked above the steaming smokestacks, far away to the distant horizon, the whiteness of his complexion a canvas absorbing all the colors around us: the blue of the ocean, the orange of the sun, the bright yellow of the women’s straw hats.

I was clutching one of my three
furoshiki
, and my new suitcase rested by my knee. The sensation of wool against my calf was strange and uncomfortable. The fabric felt coarse and unrefined to the touch. Boiled wool. Scratchy. I was surprised by my longing to slip into a comfortable and familiar cotton kimono for the journey ahead. The humidity of the summer still held fast in the September air. The sun reflected in the shimmering steel of the boat’s belly, the portholes casting a glare, making the heat all the more intense. I felt a fire growing underneath my woolen layers, my perspiration leaving a wet shadow on the outline of my spine. I wiped my brow with a square of white cloth that I had tucked into my breast pocket and offered it to Noboru.

He refused the handkerchief with the shaking of his head, the light motioning of his hand.

All around, the sight of foreign passengers, the porters lugging their parcels, steamer trunks, and recent purchases, overwhelmed me. Entourages of thirteen to fifteen persons clustered by the entranceway. Women with large hats, overblown like huge flowers, leaned on folded parasols. The most colorful fabrics I had ever seen cascaded from their tightly sashed waists. Lavender-printed flowers, their insides beaded with seed pearls and accented with lace, danced on duchess satin. Boned bodices heaved in the heat of the sun; handkerchiefs dabbed at perspiring brows. Expensive French perfume intermingled with the scent of raw cabbage and shiitake. Such smells suffocated us in the thickness of the air. The squalid odor of fowl. The fishy smell of mollusks and oysters still sliding alive in their shells. Caged birds, whose resplendent feathers echoed the paintings of Ito Jakuchu, shrieked, and nets of wriggling shrimp and bending snappers were strewn on beds of ice, carted through the third-class-deck entrance to await their imminent fate—to be eaten by the first-class passengers that evening.

The whistle sounding the ship’s departure was loud and blaring. Around me, the soft whisperings of Japanese farewells contrasted with the loud cheers and festive bustle of the Westerners boarding. Tobacco smoke mingled with the smell of the ship’s coal-burning engines. Silk flowers disengaged from ribboned bonnets, and petticoats were lifted, revealing thin ankles laced in boots, as the crowds rushed toward the entranceway. Heels clicked over the gangplank, steadied by the outstretched arm of a gentleman. With black bowler and white shirt, like me. But different.

Noboru’s head turned to me slowly, revealing his face one last time. I saw my reflection in the wet glass of his eyes.

We stood there in silence for what seemed like several minutes. Neither of us knew how to formulate our innermost thoughts into sentences. Our eyes were focused on each other’s feet; his slippered in
tabi
and sandals, mine in woolen socks and heavy brown shoes. He bowed deeply, his head nearly grazing his knee. And I reciprocated.

“Good-bye, my friend,” he said, while extending his arms to offer a small gift, wrapped tightly in white rice paper. “Do not open it until you have reached Marseilles.”

I remained still, my feet like roots anchored to the earthen floor. The package was as light as ash, weighing heavy on me, filling me deeply with its sentiment.

“Thank you,” I managed to mutter softly. “I promise to write.”

Nodding to me, acknowledging the difficulty of the situation with the bowing of his head, he walked me to the gangplank of the boat, the loud sound of the ship’s horn once again serenading the cavernous silence between us. I entered through the dark entrance for second-class passengers and made my way to the lower deck, and as the ship broke away from the dock, I waved good-bye to him once more.

He stood waving in his dark kimono, waving until the fog rolled off the sea and I could no longer see him.

When my ship had finally faded from his sight, he left the port in a hurry. As was the case since his childhood, the smell of the sea again had not been kind.