The funeral made me nauseated. I hated the deep-yellow momiji leaves that had fallen and scattered all around me, creating a bleak landscape beneath the overcast late-November sky. The sight of the falling kaede leaves always dragged me back into an endless nightmare—a cold memory of the autumn two years ago, when my mother finally surrendered to cancer.
Those final weeks had been filled with bone-deep agony. Listening to her labored breathing was like peeling an onion layer by layer just to stay alive, until at last nothing remained but surrendering to fate.
Now, at seventeen, just one day after I finished my high school (kōkō) final exams, fate struck me mercilessly once again. Our rental home on the outskirts of Tokyo suddenly filled with police tape and the flashing lights of a police kei car. My father had been killed in a brutal brawl at a seedy izakaya in the nocturnal labyrinth of Kabukicho, Shinjuku—a notorious red-light district that had long been under the grip of bōryokudan (the Japanese police's official term for yakuza syndicates).
That night, as the cold war between the main syndicate and a splinter faction (haikyū) intensified because of the tightening of the Anti-Organized-Crime Act (Bōryokudan Taisaku Hō), Dad became trapped in a territorial clash. As a junior yakuza member—a low-ranking foot soldier beneath the hierarchy of the local yakuza family (gumi)—he had been assigned to lead an escort detail. In the end, rival faction members savagely smashed his head with a whiskey bottle and shards of a metal ashtray in a narrow alley during a surprise attack (shugeki). In Japan's underworld, underlings were always the first shields sacrificed to protect the higher-ups (oyabun).
To die so stupidly, his head split open on the floor of a filthy restaurant—how tragic and ironic, the end of the man I had always considered the family's protector.
On the second day of the funeral ceremony (ososhiki), following the funeral rites (sōgi)—the main cremation and burial observances—acquaintances and distant relatives arrived to offer condolence money (kōden). I was far too exhausted to keep bowing to greet the guests. Sitting alone on a cold bench outside the funeral home (sōjō), I contemplated the future looming so darkly before me.
I had to go to Gion, Kyoto, and follow my aunt. She was the only relative willing to take me in. Dad had left behind nothing but a mountain of debt and savings barely sufficient to survive for a month. The lease on our rental home was nearly up. What choice did I have?
Auntie was a fairly successful geiko in Gion's traditional entertainment district. As the manager of an okiya—a maiko and geiko residence—she offered me a way of life I had never imagined. I had actually wanted to continue on to college (daigaku), but in a situation like this, that was nothing more than an empty dream. Auntie said she would pay for all my training to become a maiko (geiko trainee), and that eventually I could live comfortably without ever lacking money.
“I... I actually wanted to become a professional accountant...” I squeaked softly, giving voice to my small dream.
“What do you expect to get from becoming a salaryman?” Auntie cut in sharply. “Working twelve hours a day, crammed into the packed Yamanote commuter train every morning, exhausted, and then dying of karoshi?”
In Japan, becoming an entry-level office worker was often associated with a work-until-you-drop culture (karoshi). Though that path offered career stability, to Auntie, the traditional arts were a young woman's shortcut to financial independence.
“Maybe it wouldn't be that bad, Auntie...”
“No, kora! A job like that will only leave you ending up as miserably as your father. You're beautiful, and you have the looks and grace to follow in my footsteps. Let me ask you this: do you want to end up like your father?”
I shook my head. I had nothing left to argue in front of Auntie.
Auntie had decided everything for me. I had to follow her to Kyoto. It felt as though my life no longer belonged to me; I was nothing more than a single momiji leaf swept along by the cold current of the Kamogawa River.
“Kanna-san.”
A voice shattered my reverie. I looked up and saw a middle-aged man, probably in his early forties, standing beside me. I immediately rose and bowed respectfully (eshaku). I didn't know him; perhaps he had been one of Dad's coworkers.
“Could we sit for a moment? I knew your father. He often talked about you. Please accept my deepest condolences for your loss.”
“You knew Dad? Are you a kyodai?” I asked hesitantly, remembering the stories Dad had told me about his superior.
“No, I'm not your father's boss. Your father was often assigned to escort me,” he replied kindly. “Actually, yesterday he was on escort duty for one of my business matters when that terrible incident happened. A drunk mistook him for a member of the enemy faction.”
“I see...” I lowered my head, mourning Dad's tragic fate.
“The man who struck him has been arrested and will be serving time in prison.” He fell silent for a moment, studying my accent. “By the way, where will you be staying after this?”
I looked at him suspiciously. Why was he asking something so personal? Realizing how intrusive he had been, he quickly reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a business card.
“Ah, I'm sorry. My name is Derrick Tan. Your father often told me how proud he was of you. If there's anything I can do to help, please don't hesitate to contact me.” The Chinese man smiled warmly.
“Dad... talked about me often?”
“Of course. He said his daughter was a very intelligent child, completely different from his harsh world.”
I was stunned. Dad had been proud of me? Then why had he left this world so soon without giving me anything to hold on to?
“I know what it's like to lose a parent at a young age,” Derrick continued gently. “It may feel unbearably hard right now, but time will heal everything. Keep moving forward, Kanna-san.”
“Thank you so much...”
“So, where will you be staying now?” he asked again.
“I'll be going to Gion, Kyoto, with my aunt.”
“Gion, Kyoto. The beautiful thousand-year-old city.” He nodded in understanding. “Is there really nothing I can do to help?”
“No, thank you for your concern, Mr. Tan.” I bowed deeply as I accepted his business card.
“Call me if you need anything. Keep your spirits up. You'll be all right.”
He gave my shoulder a gentle pat before walking away.
The momiji leaves continued to fall, covering the ground in a melancholy copper-red. Winter would arrive soon, bringing the biting northern Karakaze winds down from the mountains. Yet beneath the chill of the snow, I knew spring would surely come, carrying new shoots of life.