The Mask Carver's Son (28 page)

D
uring my four and a half years of studying under Collin, I had exhausted almost all of my funds. The few francs that remained in the bank would barely cover my passage home. So, in the spring of 1901, I seriously began my preparations to return to Japan.

The years in Paris had often been difficult for me. In the end, I succeeded in mastering the techniques I had traveled so far to learn. But, more important, I had discovered a style of painting that was uniquely my own. I had completed nearly forty canvases. Still lifes, portraits, landscapes, and nudes. I tried my hand at all of them. Whereas I had thought myself a landscape painter when I arrived, upon my departure I knew that it was portraiture, particularly my series of self-portraits, that best revealed my strength as an artist.

My favorite was
Self-Portrait in Violet
, one of the last canvases I completed before my return to Japan. My head, painted in a deep palette of violets and dark, Prussian blues, sits on top of a body cloaked uncomfortably in a suit. The long, lavender fingers clutch a closed fan, its wooden spine strangely resembling a shard of knotted wood.

My eyes stared out to the corner, my mouth caught between a stiff smile and a cry. It is me, carved out of thick impasto. The markings of my knife embedded in the paint.

I recall Dürer’s
Self-portrait with a Thistle
, the painting that had moved me to tears as a child. That image of the young artist, with the silk cords pulled tightly across his chest, the pale flower clutched between his hands. I knew that I had finally expressed something that cried from deep within me. That I too had captured the angst and the peace that mingled in my soul. I was taking the first steps toward making amends.

*   *   *

The week before my departure, I realized that I had neglected to inform Master Collin of my return to Japan. I remained behind after our Monday class. As the other students slowly packed up their satchels, withdrew their arms from their white smocks, and rearranged themselves in their black waistcoats and silken ties, I lingered over each and every one of their movements. It had been my routine for four years, but it would all too soon become another memory. I tried to savor the sight of the dirty water jars being cleaned and replaced, the sound of the turpentine top being screwed tight.

For those are often the things we later forget.

“I will be leaving Paris shortly, Master Collin,” I informed him. “It seems that I have only enough money left to carry me home.”

He looked down at me, his tall frame and dark eyes hanging over me like a shadow.

“So soon a departure? I was hoping for another year with you at least!” He let out a small laugh that helped to diffuse the seriousness.

“Monsieur Yamamoto, you have proven yourself well over the last few years. You are no longer just a painter. You are now an artist.”

“Thank you, Master,” I said. “I am all that I am because of you.”

“Nonsense!” he bellowed. “Go back to your people and breathe life into their veins. Pierce their eyes and hearts, and fill them with color!” He was shaking my hand with vigor.

“Good luck, Yamamoto,” he said. Then he added, “You should be proud.”

That word, strange and unfamiliar to me, made me feel odd. Perhaps even sad. Once again I thought of Father, and lamented that he had never uttered it to me. Had I never merited such a compliment from him?

“Good-bye, Master, and thank you,” I whispered. “You have been like a father to me.”

“It’s an honor to have known you, and should you return to Paris, please call on me.”

We stood face-to-face for the last time, our shadows stretched over white plaster walls. And then I bowed to him. Ensuring that my neck was straight and my back flat, I bowed deeply out of respect for my beloved master.

And to my surprise he bowed to me in return, his fluff of white grazing the floor. “Go on, then,” he said, as he smiled. “Go gather your things.” And with those last words, he pressed his hand on my shoulder and turned his black-suited back to me. The sound of his walking stick echoed on the marble.
Tap, tap . . . Tap, tap . . .
fading into the sound of Flora’s calls.

Now I was alone. The four walls surrounding me were to house me no longer, so I removed all traces of myself from his studio. I cleared my sketchbook from the student racks and retrieved all of my remaining work. I rolled up my canvases and wiped down my tubes of paint. I wrapped my brushes in newsprint and tightly closed my flasks of turpentine and linseed oil.

As I walked out into the Paris evening, the iron lanterns already lit, I inhaled one last deep breath. And, strangely, the memory of that afternoon with my father, when he took me to find my first cypress tree, returned to me. That day I had also wanted to savor the smells of the musky forest floor. So that afternoon I had concentrated so hard that I knew I’d never forget. And now, as I placed each foot on the cobblestones, I found myself once again remembering the sensation of earth beneath my sandals. The sight of the red temple gate above my head. And I knew that I was ready to return.

N
oboru sent a telegram informing me that, because of a school-related function, he would be unable to meet me upon my ship’s arrival. It was the first communication I had received from him since I could remember and, as it was a telegram, the message was painfully brief.

Although I was saddened and disappointed by Noboru’s message, I was not particularly concerned. I knew that I would be able to find my way, for I was returning home, not arriving in a foreign land. What I had not expected, however, was how much different the Japan that I had carried in my memory for nearly five years was from the Japan to which I returned.

It would be wrong to deny that I too had changed. As I traveled on the steamship home, I spent what seemed like hours studying myself in the mirror. Only twenty-six years of age, yet I seemed far older. Gray hairs were emerging from my scalp. My skin was sallow. Fine lines were appearing underneath my eyes, at their corners, and around my mouth.

Would Noboru recognize me? I did not doubt my internal transformation; I realized that my experiences had forever changed me. But by my outside—by my mask—I had been betrayed. Now I had a body and a face that mirrored its age. Old before my time. As Grandmother had said, “Who would have known a man could grow ancient in a day?” The same words that she once used to describe Father could now also describe me.

I fanned my fingers over my eyes, my pupils peeking through the space between my knuckles like slats of a bamboo fan. It was strange that I would do something so vain. It seemed like something a woman would do when she approached her twenty-fifth year. When she was no longer a
hana zakari
—a flower at the peak of its bloom.

I imagined Noboru as he had been when I left him. Memories that one carries never seem to change to accommodate time. I saw him wrapped in the same navy blue kimono, I knew in the back of my mind that it would now be worn and faded to a pale gray, but I still imagined him dressed in it. The color sharp and intense. His small round face shining like the inside of an oyster shell.

Hold me,
I thought to him. Of him. Because returning was frightening. And my canvases, my experiences, and my memory were now all I had. But what I was to learn was that one should never keep memories of the living. For the living can change.

*   *   *

Tokyo, 1901. I hardly recognized you. Whereas I grew old, you grew young and new. The wood of my youth had been replaced by stone and tile. You approached your transformation into the modern age with solid structures and an affirmative air. The Meiji architecture, begun before my arrival in Tokyo as a young art student, now dominated the city. The Ministry of Justice in Kasumigaseki was complete, echoing the architecture of the French court. French and Venetian motifs decorated the facades of Tokyo mansions. Brick and mortar. Stone and stucco. Shoji and shadows disappearing from view.

My luggage would follow me in two weeks’ time. So, with only a small satchel containing my bare essentials, I wandered through the streets that were once familiar to me, and eventually found my former boardinghouse where an older woman was tending a small garden of wild eggplant outside the
genkan
.

“Excuse me for my rude intrusion,” I said. “I used to rent a room here from a man named Ariyoshi.”

“Ariyoshi Togo died three years ago. I am his sister.”

“I am sorry for your loss. I remember him as a dear and honest man.” She nodded in agreement, her head bent like that of an aging peacock.

“If you do not have a vacancy, can you suggest another place for me? I have just arrived after a long and difficult journey from abroad.”

“We are full here,” she said sweetly. “However, the house on the corner has a vacancy. Ask for Suga-san and tell him that Ume sent you.”

I bowed deeply and thanked her for her graciousness, again offering her my sympathy.

Upon my arrival at Suga’s boardinghouse, I was shown a small but clean room. The spring light was shining through the shoji, and outside the street was lined with sakura trees whose buds were just showing the first signs of pink.

“Is the bathhouse on the next street over?” I asked.

“You are familiar with this area?” Suga-san seemed surprised.

“Yes. Nearly six years ago, I lived in the Ariyoshi house.”

“So much has died in these parts in such a short time. It is hard for an old Oji-san like me to keep up with the times.”

“It is hard for everyone,” I said comfortingly. “I have never known change to be slow.”

He bowed graciously and left me to my new surroundings. I walked over the tatami and slid open the closet and removed the futon. I was tired and needed to rest.

There was something eternal about the room. Although my first glimpses of Tokyo years ago seemed foreign, here, in a room never before visited, I felt at home. The crisp smell of the tatami was refreshing to my senses. The diffused light of the shoji was soft and easy on my eyes.

The next morning, after I had returned from my bath and eaten my breakfast, I paid a young boy to deliver a message to Noboru.

“I have returned,” I wrote, “and I look forward to our meeting. Please visit me soon. It has been a long time.”

I wrote my address at the bottom of the piece of rice paper, folded it neatly into a triangle, and pressed two silver coins into the boy’s hand.

“Go quickly and with care,” I called after him.

I slid open the latch to the gate and walked up the narrow stairs to my quarters. I wrote a letter to Sakamoto, the gallery owner who had mounted Kuroda’s first exhibition in Tokyo, inquiring if he was interested in seeing my work.

That evening, as I was resting in my
yukata
, Suga called for me.

“Yamamoto-san,” he hollered, “you have two visitors who await your company.”

Who could they be? I thought to myself. It would be a tremendous coincidence if Sakamoto and Noboru had arrived together.

I stood up, smoothed out the creases in my robe, and walked downstairs to greet my guests.

Noboru and a young gentleman in his early twenties were standing in the
genkan
, dressed in formal suits. Both had their hair parted and oiled, both had mustaches, and both had foulards billowing over their stiff white collars.

I knew the other gentleman was not Sakamoto, the gallery owner. He seemed far too young. He had the cool, unblemished, unspoiled beauty that only the very young can have. For the first time in recent memory, I found myself envious. The same sort of jealousy I had as a young boy, watching my father surrounded by his beautiful, pristine masks.

Noboru extended his hands into the air. I stood on the steps looking down.

“My friend Yamamoto Kiyoki, it has been such a long time!”

I remained speechless. He noticed that my gaze was directed not at him but rather at his young friend.

“Forgive me for my rudeness. This is my friend Matsushima Noriyuki. We are both students of Kuroda Seiki.”

He had chosen not to greet me alone, an action far more powerful than any words could be.

I gathered my emotions. “Would the two of you care for some tea in my room?” I motioned to the dimly lit hallway above my head.

Noboru turned to his friend, and they both nodded in agreement.

“That sounds very good, if it is no trouble to you. You must still be very tired from your journey.”

“I am fine,” I assured him. “Please, it is just up here.” They followed me up the stairs and into my room.

As they settled into the room, I reached for the boiling kettle on the brazier and began preparing the tea. It had been a long time since I had prepared
o-cha
, and I tried to disguise my unease.

“We drink coffee too!” Matsushima chimed proudly.

“Yes,” Noboru agreed. “It has become somewhat popular here.”

“I regret that I have no coffee to offer you. Suga has only provided me with tea.”

“That is fine, my old friend,” Noboru said with a laugh. “I have come because I want to see you and be the first to hear of your travels, not for your drinks.”

He was not wearing his navy kimono, as I had imagined him.

Age had not yet arrived on his face. His skin was still smooth, his complexion still pale. I raised my head as I poured the steaming tea. Viewing him through the clouds of vapor reminded me of the days we spent envisioning our lives abroad over a pot of shared tea. Those days now seemed to be from another lifetime. And I felt my heart ticking inside my chest, as if viewing the demise of our friendship from the outside, the distance between us now seeming far greater than the span of water I had traveled on my return.

Noboru broke the silence. “Do you have any samples of your work here, or are they arriving with your luggage?” he asked.

“I have brought some of my canvases and one sketchbook. The canvases are rolled up, but I will show them to you. I am hoping to meet Sakamoto soon to see if he is interested in exhibiting my work.”

“Sakamoto, eh?” Noboru raised his brows. “He has a respectable gallery. Isn’t that where Kuroda had his first show?”

“I believe it is,” I said.

“I’m sure he’ll be interested. He is always looking for the next Kuroda.” Then he added, “Now let us see those canvases!” His tone seeming almost wolfish.

I did not want to appear secretive, so I excused myself and retrieved my work. Grateful for the opportunity to compose myself, I spent several minutes hunched behind a folding screen rummaging through some satchels.

I returned to the main tatami room with two still lifes and three self-portraits. Whereas my earlier work had been influenced by the Impressionists, for the most part, my later work was far darker in its palette, angrier in its tone, and fiercer in its brushwork. They were somber but passionate paintings, born from my pain and isolation, the images resurrected from my experience.

Noboru leaned over each canvas as I rolled them out on the tatami floor. He squinted and pushed his face close to each work in order to examine the brushwork more closely.

“Is the still life of the fruit your earlier work?” he asked.

“Yes. Is it that apparent?”

“Well,” Noboru said slowly, “the Japanese usually prefer a lighter palette. The public seems to have a penchant for subtle color and subdued brushstroke. Your work seems fierce. Angrier than your normal temperament. I must say, I’m a bit surprised.” I could tell from the way that he carefully chose his words that he was trying to disguise his distaste for my work.

Raising his head, he added, “But what do I know, Yamamoto? I am confident that Sakamoto will pick what he thinks is best.

“Is this the painting,
The Fairy Faun
, from this past year’s Salon?” he asked as he picked up the canvas that lay in the far corner of the room.

“Yes, it is,” I said quietly.

“The model is most beguiling. Her face seems almost a combination of the sexes. She has the defiant eyes of a man and the delicate features of a woman.” He paused. “Such a splendid creature!”

I nodded in agreement while looking at his friend, Matsushima, whose face was beautiful but as blank as a water-washed stone.

I knew that I looked at Matsushima coldly, as though looking at myself ten years ago, and I was filled with disgust.

“What have you been doing lately?” I asked Noboru in a tone I would have used to address someone only slightly more familiar than a stranger.

“Well, after I complete my final works for Kuroda next week, I plan to start an atelier of my own. The students who are not accepted at the Tokyo School of Fine Arts will need a place to learn Western technique. The demand for instructors is actually quite high. You might consider it.”

I knew that the income from such instruction was quite good, but I still had dreams of supporting myself purely from my own craft. Much as Father had from his. I would prove to everyone that I was capable and talented enough to achieve such a feat!

“I will have to see what opportunities unfold for me, now that I have returned,” I said as I rolled up my canvases and returned them to the closet.

“Well, I hope all works out well with you and Sakamoto,” Noboru said as he stood up abruptly, the young Matsushima mimicking him like a puppet. “Please forgive us for our rudeness, but we must be going. I am sure you are quite tired as well.”

“Yes, yes,” I said, somewhat eagerly. “But it was good of you to come.”

I saw the two of them to the gate, and I felt as if I had all of a sudden switched places with my father in my memory. I was now the one standing outside the
genkan
. Standing there alone. The one betrayed.

*   *   *

Sakamoto sent a letter requesting I visit him at his gallery three days later. I gathered my portfolio and set out to meet with him.

His gallery was near the Ginza, on the first floor on an exclusive street.

“You must be Yamamoto Kiyoki,” he said, greeting me at his door. “Please come in.” He was wearing a black suit, a white shirt, and a black bow tie. A black bowler hat was resting on a bamboo table in the
genkan
.

I slid off my shoes and bowed deeply.

“Please, Yamamoto-san, please come in!”

The building’s traditional dark wooden outside was in sharp contrast with the brightly illuminated interior. Asai Chu’s
Fields in Spring
, among other paintings, hung on the wall.

“Would you like some tea?” he offered.

“I am fine, thank you.”

“I received your letter and am quite interested to see your work. Did you bring samples from your portfolio?” He began clearing his desk.

“Yes,” I said, unrolling them onto the desk’s wooden surface.

He spent several minutes on each one. He nodded his head up and down. He looked closely and then stepped away in order to gaze from a distance.

“I have never seen anything quite like these,” he said, pointing to my three self-portraits. Indeed, they were dark and serious portrayals of me. I had sought inspiration from the works of Rembrandt, but chose to reinterpret his style. I preserved the same black monochrome background, scumbled the pigment, and infused an ample amount of varnish. But when I painted myself, I used a thick, coarse brush and avoided the smooth, delicate lines of the old master style, and I opted for more frenzied, almost kinetic ones. I painted myself in a kimono. I also painted myself in a suit and tie. I wanted to convey that my experience had transformed me into a chameleon. But my favorite painting remained
Self-Portrait in Violet
.