The Mask Carver's Son by Alyson Richman Read Free Book Online Page B

the wig. She remembered how she had placed four pins underneath the combs during the
o’miai
. She would be more careful this time, she thought to herself. With all her heart, she hoped the gods had not taken notice of her mistake.
    This time she chose five combs. She selected two adorned with auspicious animals, the tortoise and the crane, and one made of red lacquer, one made of silver, and one made of gold.
    She stood behind my mother and slowly placed the wig on her head. She smoothed down the strands of hair with her palms and then delicately placed the
tsuno-kakushi
on top.
    Mother felt a dull pain in her neck from the increasing weight being placed on her tiny form.
    “You look beautiful, Etsuko,” Grandmother whispered, as they both stared into the same mirror.
    Mother looked at herself in the small glass frame. She believed she looked identical to Grandmother on her wedding day, as she was dressed in the wedding kimono Grandmother herself had worn. She concentrated on her heavily powdered face, the carefully painted red mouth and finely lined eyes. For the first time she noticed that she had her mother’s cheekbones and softly rounded chin.
    But the weight of the kimono, the tightness of her obi, and the layers of cloth around her neck were suffocating her.
    “I can hardly breathe, Mother,” she said.
    “You will become accustomed to it, Etsuko.” Grandmother smiled as she rested her palm on her daughter’s shoulder. “I felt the same way on my wedding day.”
    But Mother knew that those words were half-truths. Her parents’ story was different from hers. And her life would undoubtedly be different from theirs. She knew in her heart that she did not love her husband-to-be and that he could not possibly love her. Her sense of responsibility and devotion was to her family; her husband’s was to his craft. But if the gods smiled upon their union and gave them a son, both parties would be content. So when she visited the Zuishin shrine before her wedding day, that was what she prayed for. She did not pray for love or for health. She prayed for me.
    Sadly, that was all she ultimately received.
    *   *   *
    The banquet was the most splendid display the guests had ever seen. Under Grandmother’s careful guidance, each course was fastidiously arranged and artistically decorated. Adhering to tradition, the cucumbers were cut into the shape of pine trees, as the evergreen was a symbol of a long and lasting marriage, and the carrots were cut into the shape of bamboo roots, the symbol of a sturdy union. The dried
matsutake
mushrooms had been reconstituted in a mixture of sake and rice wine and folded into heaping mounds of rice.
Shiso
leaves and chrysanthemum petals floated in clear broth like flowers in a palace pond, red caviar roe rolled in seaweed glimmered, and raw jellied quail eggs jiggled their bright yellow yolks in half-open pale blue shells speckled in white. Crisp tempura slices of lotus root and sweet yams were placed on flat basket trays decorated by a spray of winter grasses. The festive
o-seki-han
—rice pinkened with mashed azuki beans—was served cool on the top shelf of a three-tiered lacquer box also containing a small grilled fish on the second shelf, and a selection of
tsukemono
pickles on the third. Lastly, and most elegantly, sugar-dusted plums were served for dessert.
    Mother had always been particularly fond of plums. She loved their perfectly round shape, their thin translucent skin, and the sweet succulence of their flesh. As she sat displayed next to her new and unfamiliar husband on the wedding dais, she found herself anxious to try the plum that rested on the tray before her.
    She looked to her husband, who sat squarely at her side dressed handsomely in his black crested kimono and
haori
coat. With a quick glance she surveyed what he had eaten, as she herself was becoming quite hungry. She noticed that her husband had nearly finished the elaborate meal that had been placed before