him in its entirety. He had eaten everything except the sugar-dusted plum.
Mother, however, had been fearful to eat anything all day. Aside from the normal premarital apprehension, her tightly bound obi had severely constricted her eating so much that her intricately arranged meal remained untouched.
I will only have a nibble, she thought to herself. I will only eat the plum.
Then, with great subtlety and refinement, Mother revealed two slender fingers from the sleeve of her heavy silken robe and placed the plum discreetly in her mouth.
The plum tasted wonderful. Sweet and fragrant. Mother let the juice slide down her throat and into her empty stomach. She closed her eyes, savoring its exquisite taste.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Grandmother surrounded by several of the wives of actors in the theater laughing and speaking among themselves. She smiled at Grandmother and watched as she elegantly bowed her head and bent her knees, in a polite departure from her guests. Within a few moments she was at her daughter’s side.
“The plums are delicious, Mother,” she said.
“Plum blossoms are the first flower to appear in winter. They are hearty and they persevere. Even after the cruelest frost, the plum blossom remains. That is why the image of the plum is ever present at a wedding. Especially a winter wedding like yours, Etsuko.”
* * *
Father had seen the sugar-dusted plums being neatly arranged earlier that morning. He had frowned behind Grandmother’s back as she frantically rushed to place each one on its tray. In his mind, the plum did not bode well for the future.
He was silent as the four of them rode in carriages to the shrine for the Shinto ceremony, he riding with Grandfather, she with Grandmother.
My mother stepped out of the palanquin like an empress.Grandmother steadying her exit with the extension of her hand. Mother held the front placket of her robe with candle-thin fingers, the tips finely rounded and lightly powdered, and stepped to the ground with grace. Grandmother straightened the robe’s heavy train and met the eyes of her husband. He was beaming, seeing his daughter dressed in the same magnificent finery in which he earlier had wed her mother.
Father gazed nervously at his young bride. He noticed the beautiful shadow that her headdress cast over her porcelain-white face. He felt the coldness he had harbored in his heart so long grow warm. She was indeed more beautiful than he imagined a woman ever could be.
Their eyes finally met during the exchange of the
san-san-kudo
, the three sips, followed by another three sips of sake, the essential binding part of the Shinto ceremony. And for the first time in his memory, he discovered two eyes blinking back at him.
* * *
That afternoon, the Yamamoto household was brimming with food and conversation. Grandfather believed he was uniting the finest blood and talent in the theater. When he lifted his cup of rice wine to toast the new couple he remarked, “This day signified the merging of acting and art. Their son, my future grandson,” he declared, “will be the future of Noh for us all!” The other actors cheered Grandfather and the young couple and within minutes they broke into song. With great gusto they began chanting “Takasago” the Noh song that describes the twin pines of Takasago Suminoe, a symbol of everlasting marital happiness. But the actors never finished the chorus. The rice wine had made them giddy and they gave up halfway through, buckling over in their kimonos, their faces as red as pickled plums.
* * *
None of the daughters in the other families envied my mother. They all believed that my father was too consumed by his craft ever to be bothered with love. Within the circle of hushed whispers, it was said that a man whose fingers are indistinguishable from the blades with which he slices can never truly caress and love the flesh. His fingers become scythes, and his skin solidifies,
Mother, however, had been fearful to eat anything all day. Aside from the normal premarital apprehension, her tightly bound obi had severely constricted her eating so much that her intricately arranged meal remained untouched.
I will only have a nibble, she thought to herself. I will only eat the plum.
Then, with great subtlety and refinement, Mother revealed two slender fingers from the sleeve of her heavy silken robe and placed the plum discreetly in her mouth.
The plum tasted wonderful. Sweet and fragrant. Mother let the juice slide down her throat and into her empty stomach. She closed her eyes, savoring its exquisite taste.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Grandmother surrounded by several of the wives of actors in the theater laughing and speaking among themselves. She smiled at Grandmother and watched as she elegantly bowed her head and bent her knees, in a polite departure from her guests. Within a few moments she was at her daughter’s side.
“The plums are delicious, Mother,” she said.
“Plum blossoms are the first flower to appear in winter. They are hearty and they persevere. Even after the cruelest frost, the plum blossom remains. That is why the image of the plum is ever present at a wedding. Especially a winter wedding like yours, Etsuko.”
* * *
Father had seen the sugar-dusted plums being neatly arranged earlier that morning. He had frowned behind Grandmother’s back as she frantically rushed to place each one on its tray. In his mind, the plum did not bode well for the future.
He was silent as the four of them rode in carriages to the shrine for the Shinto ceremony, he riding with Grandfather, she with Grandmother.
My mother stepped out of the palanquin like an empress.Grandmother steadying her exit with the extension of her hand. Mother held the front placket of her robe with candle-thin fingers, the tips finely rounded and lightly powdered, and stepped to the ground with grace. Grandmother straightened the robe’s heavy train and met the eyes of her husband. He was beaming, seeing his daughter dressed in the same magnificent finery in which he earlier had wed her mother.
Father gazed nervously at his young bride. He noticed the beautiful shadow that her headdress cast over her porcelain-white face. He felt the coldness he had harbored in his heart so long grow warm. She was indeed more beautiful than he imagined a woman ever could be.
Their eyes finally met during the exchange of the
san-san-kudo
, the three sips, followed by another three sips of sake, the essential binding part of the Shinto ceremony. And for the first time in his memory, he discovered two eyes blinking back at him.
* * *
That afternoon, the Yamamoto household was brimming with food and conversation. Grandfather believed he was uniting the finest blood and talent in the theater. When he lifted his cup of rice wine to toast the new couple he remarked, “This day signified the merging of acting and art. Their son, my future grandson,” he declared, “will be the future of Noh for us all!” The other actors cheered Grandfather and the young couple and within minutes they broke into song. With great gusto they began chanting “Takasago” the Noh song that describes the twin pines of Takasago Suminoe, a symbol of everlasting marital happiness. But the actors never finished the chorus. The rice wine had made them giddy and they gave up halfway through, buckling over in their kimonos, their faces as red as pickled plums.
* * *
None of the daughters in the other families envied my mother. They all believed that my father was too consumed by his craft ever to be bothered with love. Within the circle of hushed whispers, it was said that a man whose fingers are indistinguishable from the blades with which he slices can never truly caress and love the flesh. His fingers become scythes, and his skin solidifies,
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