Mukojima

Mr. Yamagishi loves to whistle. And he does it like no one else I've ever met.

I first heard him whistling "Aka Tombo" on the Sakurabashi bridge. He was standing in the bright afternoon sun sending his notes over the river and into the wind. I was crossing to Mukojima in hopes of finding the old stone lantern that guided ships into the harbor that was once the Sumida, but I stopped to listen to this small wiry man because of the volume and soul he was putting into his music.

Mr. Yamagishi, a former ivory carver and industrial designer, places his index finger and thumb together as if making an "okay" signal, then puts the crook of his index finger into his mouth with the other fingers splayed against his nose and eye. And then he blows. He looks like he's playing a trumpet.

He comes to the Sakurabashi bridge, the only pedestrian bridge on the Sumida river, on a Saturday or Sunday because the wind carries his loud notes away. He asked me for a request and before I could reply he started playing "Tennessee Waltz" -- missing one or two notes, but quite fetchingly anyway.

I asked him about the stone lantern and he offered to show it to me. As we walked along the river, he spoke of how he used to swim in the "O-kawa" as old-time Shitamachi residents call the Sumida.

Along the promenade on both sides of the river, many of Tokyo's homeless have put together shelters with blue plastic tarps appropriated from construction sites. These tarps are used in an impressive variety of arrangements -- slung over a rope tied between two trees; nailed to thin lathe frames; draped over cardboard boxes; held up by tent poles; held down by water-filled pet bottles; or simply laid on the ground like a drop cloth. The blue tarp gives shade, stops the wind, keeps in warmth and keeps out rain for the hundreds of homeless that live along both banks of the river and in Sumida Park in Asakusa and Mukojima. The shelters are all tidy constructions -- shoes are removed and placed neatly outside each entrance. Mr. Yamagishi explains that these promenades are also the practice venues for the dancers of the Asakusa Samba festival. Every year around that time the local police come around and ask the gentlemen to leave. They pack up and when the festival's over, they come back again.

Artists, lecturers, and company managers number among these men who wash their underclothes in water fountains, says Mr. Yamagishi. Victims of "restructure." Many have pets. Cats mostly. But one enterprising man had an aquarium of goldfish and guppies on top of a crate.

Mukojima, "the Other Side Island," of the Sumida is known for it's old shines devoted to the Seven Gods of Good Luck. Maybe that is why these men live so close by -- hoping that some good luck might slip their way through the cracks.

The whole area seems drowsy, a back water where the rhythm of Tokyo is still measured by the slow tick of a wind-up pendulum clock. A few ivory workers still ply their trade on this side of the river. And several old establishments remain in Mukojima still catering dinner parties accompanied by geishas -- a practice that has died out in other parts of the city.

Mr. Yamagishi is an excellent guide. He takes me to Ushijima-jinja, one of the oldest shrines in the city, with its famous black stone cow and its monument to chefs' knives. We pay our respects to Benten, the goddess of artistic achievement, at Kofuku-ji and to Hotei, the guardian of children, at Chomei-ji then we amble down a dirt path behind the temples. Mr. Yamagishi reminisces about American fighter pilots dive-bombing Tokyo. He remembers one plane in particular swooping down almost touching his head. For some reason the pilot didn't push the button on the machine guns. He can still see the pilot's face like it happened yesterday. He wore goggles and was a dead-ringer for me says Mr. Yamagishi.

Every so often Mr. Yamagishi gets the urge and whistles -- an Yves Montand chanson, "El Condor Pasa" by Simon and Garfunkel, old sailor songs. He stops to serenade a group of five elderly ladies enjoying the shade on a park bench. One woman smiles so broadly at his tune she reveals the one tooth in her mouth. She gets up, does a little dance, and tucks a 1000 yen note into his shirt pocket perhaps mistaking Mr. Yamagishi for one of the park's blue tarp residents.

Behind Mimeguri-jinja, which is dedicated ironically enough to Inari, the god of business prosperity, is a fountain waterfall built under the Joban expressway which passes overhead. Water cascades down a series of basins from a large bronze turtle and frog who has a knapsack slung nonchalantly around its neck. Two men, defying the steep stone slope, have made a brave cardboard and tarp camp at the summit. Imbedded into the buttress of the expressway, is a large enameled mural scene of the river and Mukojima during Edo times showing samurai and other aristocrats enjoying the cherry trees planted under orders by the eighth Shogun Yoshimune.

The half of Sumida Park on this side of the river has an extensive pond and garden modeled after the famous garden in Kanazawa. The park was once the private garden of a branch of the Tokugawa family, but now is free and open to anyone. It is a popular blue tarp retreat. Near the pond, some oldsters play a game of sand volleyball. At the edge of the stagnant water, Mr. Yamagishi stops to practice another tune, "Kono Michi," for the ducks, swans, and pidgeons. Rising like a golden-hued monolith above the park is the spanking new Sumida Ward Office.

What do the men in those high offices make of the blue dots of tarp lining both sides of the river 40 floors below them? And what do the men in the higher offices of Shinjuku think when they look down on the blue tarp veining which threads through Yoyogi park and Ueno park, down the alleys and under the bridges and overpasses of every neighborhood?

The river reflects a shining light on the long curve of the city and one would have to go far to find a more pleasant place for a walk. Mr. Yamagishi pauses to whistle "Swanee River." He stands straight and tall and blows his rendition as solemnly as if he were playing "Taps."

-- mjk