The Mask Carver's Son
MORE PRAISE FOR
The Mask Carver’s Son
“This reverent, formal, and ambitious first novel boasts a glossy surface and convincing period detail.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Richman has successfully drawn upon her historical research and her own experience . . . filled with historical detail and strong characterization.”
—Library Journal
“A meticulous profile of a man struggling against his native culture, his family, and his own sense of responsibility.”
—The New York Times Book Review
PRAISE FOR THE WORKS OF ALYSON RICHMAN
The Lost Wife
“Staggeringly evocative, romantic, heartrending, sensual, and beautifully written, Alyson Richman’s The Lost Wife may well be the Sophie’s Choice of this generation.”
—John Lescroart, New York Times bestselling author
“A truly beautiful, heartfelt story . . . I couldn’t put it down once I started it. Ms. Richman is a very special talent.”
—Kristin Hannah, New York Times bestselling author
“Daringly constructed, this moving novel begins at the end and then, in a fully realized circle through the most traumatic events of the twentieth century, returns you there in a way that makes your heart leap. Richman writes with the clarity and softness of freshly fallen snow.”
—Loring Mandel, two-time Emmy Award–winning screenwriter of Conspiracy
“Richman once again finds inspiration in art, adding evocative details to a swiftly moving plot. Her descent into the horrors of the Holocaust lends enormous power to Lenka’s experience and makes her reunion with Josef all the more poignant.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Tragedy and hope, love and loss, and the strength to endure are examined through Richman’s graceful writing and powerful characters.”
—Booklist
“Begins with a chilling revelation and had me hooked throughout. A love story wrapped in tragedy and survival, I read The Lost Wife in one sitting. Tense, emotional, and fulfilling: a great achievement by Alyson Richman.”
—Martin Fletcher, special correspondent, NBC News, winner of the Jewish National Book Award
“The Lost Wife is a luminous, heartbreaking novel. I was barely able to put it down and can’t stop thinking about it. Not only is the writing exquisite but I have seldom seen such skill in sweeping a reader back and forth over sixty years until the journey of Josef and Lenka, both such brave and beautiful people, becomes one glorious circle of the triumph of love over evil.”
—Stephanie Cowell, author of Claude & Camille and Marrying Mozart
The Last Van Gogh
“The Last Van Gogh is a balanced symphony . . . Richman’s style is gentle and sober. With clear, undulating prose . . . it is as evocative as one of Van Gogh’s paintings. Richman proves she can travel through time to re-create the past.”
—En Route Magazine
“The Last Van Gogh paints an intricate portrait of a woman’s life at the end of the nineteenth century . . . It is a powerful and poignant love story.”
—Tulip Magazine
“[A] beautiful book.”
—Vriendin Magazine
The Rhythm of Memory
(previously published as Swedish Tango)
“An engrossing examination of the prisons people create for themselves and the way they accustom themselves to suffering until liberation seems as painful as captivity. This is an ambitious exploration of political and personal struggles.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A heart-wrenching story of loss and love in the lives of people affected by war and political upheaval . . . [marked by] sharp resonance.”
—Library Journal
“Places an Ayn Rand lens on societal ethics against personal loyalty and safety . . . Deep, thought-provoking philosophical questions on the needs of an individual and a family against the demands of deadly leadership and a nation.”
—Midwest Book Review
ALSO BY ALYSON RICHMAN
The Last Van Gogh
The Rhythm of Memory
The Lost Wife
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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THE MASK CARVER’S SON
Copyright © 2000 by Alyson Richman.
“Readers Guide” copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA).
Excerpt from The Lost Wife copyright © 2011 by Alyson Richman.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
The author wishes to thank Hiroaki Soto for permission to quote from “Cathedral in the Thrashing Rain” from A Brief History of Imbecility: Poetry and Prose of Takamura Kotaro (University of Hawaii Press, 1992), translated, with an introduction by Hiroaki Soto from Twenty Plays of the No Theatre, edited by Donald Keene. Copyright © 1970 by Columbia University Press. Reprinted with the permission of the publisher.
BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA)
The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA)
ISBN: 978-0-425-26726-4
eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62125-7
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bloomsbury Publishing trade paperback edition / February 2001
Berkley trade paperback edition / September 2013
Title page illustration and design by Laura K. Corless
Cover design by Sarah Oberrender
Cover photos: Seine River © W. Robert Moore, National Geographic Image Collection/Alamy; cherry blossoms © prasit chansareekorn/Shutterstock
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
For Stephen,
whose love, support, and gentle kindness
enabled me to write this book.
For my parents,
with love and gratitude.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Part Two
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THR
EE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Part Three
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
OBITUARY
Readers Guide
Special Preview of The Lost Wife
O Notre-Dame, Notre-Dame,
rock-like, mountain-like, eagle-like, crouching-lion-like cathedral
reef sunk in vast air,
square pillar of Paris,
sealed by the blinding splatters of rain,
taking the slapping wind head-on.
O soaring in front, Notre-Dame de Paris,
it’s me, looking up at you.
It’s that Japanese.
My heart trembles now that I see you.
Looking at your form like a tragedy,
a young man from a distant country is moved.
Not knowing for what reason, my heart pounds
in unison with the screams in the air, resounds as if terrified.
Takamura Kotaro
Part One
ONE
My memories of Paris are never too distant, the colors never too far removed. My palette runs with the blue of violets, the burnt red of sienna, and the saffron yellow of cadmium, yet I remain chalked in a gray-walled studio on the outskirts of Tokyo. Here, every surface is tacked with newsprint sketches and unfinished canvases, and every floorboard blackened by the dust of crushed charcoal. My mind is captured by a fingernail memory, caged by the fractured glass of a prism that refracts time and reflects only the past.
Burdened by my vision and displaced by my experience, I am bound. My journey prevented me from being Japanese; my face prevented me from being French. I am an artist who cannot belong to the tapestry of either country. But my misery becomes me. I exist with few friends and even fewer followers. I suppose I must be proud of this: like my father’s craft, my world remains appreciated by few.
* * *
My father was a mask carver. As a young boy I saw his craft overtake his face. While other boys see their fathers’ faces become a feathered maze of wrinkles, my father’s became a smooth sheet of stone. My father had a broad, flat face and skin stretched so thin that he appeared blue. He, a man who carried with him the faint green smell of cypress and the cool sting of steel, could stammer only a few words to me, yet could stare for hours from behind a pair of bottomless black eyes.
Father was a lonely and famous man, and I his lonely and confused son. He widowed, I motherless, we lived quietly near the Daigo mountain, within the walls of Kyoto. This mountain, the ancient tomb for the emperor Daigo’s spirit, served as the shrine of my childhood. As I crossed its earthen path each day, with the sand and rock dust beneath my sandals and the flaming orange gateway above my head, I knew that something was here in this burial ground of my ancestors and their rulers that breathed a rhythm into my own minor existence. It was also here that, as a young schoolboy dressed in my coarsely woven hakama, I first noticed the extraordinary beauty of the seasons.
I marked the seasons by the change in the mountain; perhaps this was the first palette I ever owned. From below the belly of the mountain, the fabric of autumn stretched high into the horizon. The colors, loomed by the threads of interwoven leaves, beamed yellow to screaming scarlet, then humbled to a fading brown. Winter ushered the dying leaves to the sepulchre of the earth’s frozen floor and blanketed the city and empty branches with a soft cotton rain. It was in those cold, dark months, with the color drained from the landscape, that I was most miserable. The brightest things I saw between late December and early February were my frostbitten ankles, which shot nakedly from underneath the cloth of my uniform, their skin always splashed crimson from suffering the bite of the bitter snow.
Every night my father and I raised a sliver of my mother’s dowry to our lips as we sipped fish broth from her dark lacquer bowls. Her ghost most often visited me on icy winter nights. She always came in silence, careful not to disturb my father’s solitude, arriving and then dissolving in the cloudlike formations of my soup.
She appeared and she was beautiful. She, my fleeting companion who encouraged me, who I sensed always understood.
Her death had prevented me from knowing her voice, yet her image was revealed to me when I was alone at night. She would come to me as I lay sleeping and lead me through what appeared to be just a dream, but in reality was the story that preceded my life.
* * *
Father’s arrival into the Yamamoto family was as strange and mysterious as our family itself. His arrival was unannounced. He carried with him no letter of introduction, no ceremonial gift reserved for first meetings. He simply arrived at the Kanze theater carrying with him nothing more than a furoshiki filled with masks.
Grandfather’s reputation, however, preceded him. Yamamoto Yuji. He was the most famous and most revered Noh actor in the Kansai region, the patriarch of the Kanze Noh family. People came to see him whether he performed by torchlight or within the walls of the Kanze theater. Having played the distinguished roles of both God and Spirit for nearly a half a century, his position had gone unrivaled. To many in that community, he was the closest thing to a living God.
His entrance on the stage was marked by the beating of the otsuzumi, the high-pitched cries of the chorus, and the nokan whistling its shrill staccato. I can still envision the richly embroidered karaori hanging from his broad shoulders and the tresses of the massive wig tumbling down his back.
Most vivid in my memory is the mask, the haunting mask: its hollowed-out eyes and a face that changed with every turn. The mask with a life of its own.
That day in the theater, the first time my grandfather laid eyes on one of my father’s masks, he felt his face drain white. Holding the mask between his thick, pulpy hands, he shivered, and his eyes widened with wonder. There was something different about my father’s masks. And after Grandfather held each one in the cup of his hands, he swore he could feel each unique spirit seeping into the creases of his palms.
He felt his eyes being drawn into the masks. Their eyes penetrated his own gaze. To my grandfather, my father’s masks were just like those carved by the masters over a hundred years before. In particular, the young man’s masks reminded him of those of the great Mitsuzane; they were subtle, refined, and possessed a haunting intensity that stirred his soul.
My grandfather looked into the eyes of this quiet young carver and saw nothing. He then looked to Father’s hands; he saw genius.
He asked my father about his family. Where had he been born? Who was his father? To whom had he served his apprenticeship?
My father’s voice was soft. His response to Grandfather’s inquiry was barely a whisper: “I no longer have a family.”
If it had not been for the silence of the room, Grandfather would have been unable to hear. He could
see that my father’s lips were still moving, and because he felt a strange interest in the man, he craned his thickly veined neck toward the young carver.
Father’s words were barely audible, but Grandfather found himself entranced. He had, for perhaps the first time in his life, relinquished his role as performer and become the sole member of an awestruck audience.
Within the sanctuary of Grandfather’s dressing room, my father relayed his story. A strange and sad story, one of ghosts and plum trees, of an old man and a young boy. A story so unique it could have been a play of Noh.
* * *
When Father had finished telling his story, his body echoed his exhaustion. His shoulders sloped under the folds of his kimono and his eyelids weighed heavily, veiled pupils gazing at the ground.
Grandfather was rendered speechless. He had never heard such an outrageous story. Nor had he seen such a young and talented carver in his lifetime. His mind raced. If what my father said was true, he possessed a skill that could rival that of Mitsuzane, one of Noh’s most revered carvers.
Truly, the masks before him were unlike any he had seen before. The edges were whittled down to paper-thin proportions, and the features were perfectly formed. But even more impressive was their incredible sense of unearthliness. These masks were not bound to a single expression. Rather, the strokes of the carver had freed their spirit instead of binding them to a single earthbound existence. They refused to be captured; they evaded his eyes like coquettish young girls masked in an innate world of mystery. They existed like blank white ghosts until he manipulated his hands under their backsides.
Grandfather held the Komachi Rojo mask in his palms. His eyes traced the thin curl of her ruby-painted lips, the razor-sharp incisions of her eyes; in her blankness she seemed almost haughty, defiant, all-knowing. But when he tilted his palms forward, he saw her face cast in an entirely different shadow. Suddenly she appeared sadder, older, and lonelier. He jerked forward. Startled by his abrupt movement, he focused his gaze once more. He could not believe his eyes; it was as if the spirit of the aged poet Komachi was transforming there before him.
Grandfather knew this carver was empowered with a gift far greater than even his own acting ability. He pondered the young man before him and then found his concentration shifting to his daughter. With no heir to carry on the Yamamoto name, he marveled at the idea of a possible family union.