The Ink-Keeper's Apprentice (15 page)

It was drizzling when we left the restaurant. Mr. Kubota opened
his umbrella and held it over our heads. He was always careful with his immaculately pomaded hair.

"There's an interesting cabaret near here," he said. "Let me buy you a drink to celebrate your good fortune."

"I'd like that," I said eagerly as we turned into a narrow street full of drinking places.

"Have you ever been here?" he asked me, pointing to a fancy nightclublike place with a thick glass door in front and a blue neon sign above an awning. I shook my head and he led me up the carpeted staircase. What an odd thing to ask, I thought. Did he think I frequented such a place? Then perhaps he was being polite, treating me like an adult.

It was a bar, a dark and crowded place, hazy with smoke. Men and women sat around tables cluttered with gleaming cocktail glasses. They were all silhouetted against the bar that looked like a brightly lit stage at the end of the long narrow room; it was like walking into a dark Daumier painting. A hostess in a kimono seated us at a table with four chairs. And no sooner had we sat down than two hostesses, also wearing kimonos, appeared out of the dark and joined our table. The place was full of hostesses. Mr. Kubota didn't seem in the least annoyed by the intrusion; he smiled and said something to them and the women giggled, covering their mouths with their hands. Obviously Mr. Kubota was an old hand at teasing bar women. I couldn't even look them in the eye. One of them pushed her chair and sidled up to me and I automatically moved away from her. She wore a strong perfume and smoked a cigarette in a black holder.

"What will you have?" asked Mr. Kubota.

"I don't know. What are you going to have?"

"A whiskey sour. Will you have one?"

"I'll try it."

"Two whiskey sours," said the hostess next to me and left the table to get our drinks. Mr. Kubota seemed calm and relaxed, draping his right arm over the backrest of the other hostess's chair. The woman leaned over and whispered in Mr. Kubota's ear and
they laughed like old friends. I had a feeling that her comment was about me.

The hostess returned with four glasses on a tray; apparently they were having whiskey sours also. And as she sat down she touched my glass with hers and smiled. She was rather pretty. The drink was awful. It was my first whiskey and it tasted harsh and medicinelike.

"Are you Kubota-san's classmate?" she asked me. She even knew his name.

"How old do you think he is?" Mr. Kubota asked before I could answer. The women studied me.

"Nineteen? Twenty?"

"Very close," he said. "He's just finishing high school. He's quite an artist besides being a good karate man."

"How nice," said the woman on my side and looked at me with something like admiration in her eyes. It was hard to tell if they believed him, and if they didn't, they were certainly good actresses. The dim lighting made everything and everybody seem unreal, mysterious, ageless.

"What sort of art do you do?" asked Mr. Kubota's companion.

"Mostly drawings," I said without looking at her.

"He's being modest," said Mr. Kubota. "His drawings are no ordinary drawings. He's the star pupil of the great Noro Shinpei."

"The cartoonist?" she asked.

"The very same."

It was a relief not to have to do the talking. Mr. Kubota was probably trying to put me at ease.

"Show me your hand," said the hostess beside me. "Let me see the hand of an artist." She took my left hand in hers and began to stroke it. I pulled back, almost jerking it away, feeling nervous and uncomfortable. Mr. Kubota watched me with an amused look on his face. The woman laughed and took out a package of cigarettes from inside her kimono and offered it to me. I shook my head, but the other hostess reached out and took one. Mr. Kubota was quick with the match. The bartender put a new record on the phonograph and Mr. Kubota asked his companion to dance, and the two of them joined the other couples in the narrow aisle. It was
weird to watch hostesses in flowered kimonos clinging to men in business suits, shuffling mindlessly to loud music with a saxophone blaring. I couldn't see what pleasure those men found in dancing with hostesses, especially Mr. Kubota, who was magnificent when he was doing a difficult karate dance but on the dance floor looked clumsy and out of place.

"You don't dance?" asked the hostess.

"No," I said, almost in a panic.

"It's easy, you know." She tilted her head to one side and peered into my eyes.

"No, I couldn't do it."

"Don't worry, I won't force you." She laughed, and reached out for a cigarette and put it into her holder. I struck a match to light it for her, and as she put the cigarette to the flame her face glowed in the small orb of light. My heart gave a violent thump—I saw dark roots of whiskers protruding through the thick layer of face powder. Noticing me staring, she quickly blew out the match and the cloud of smoke and the darkness hid her face from me. I stole a quick glance at her profile and saw a big Adam's apple. Her hand on the table had long painted nails, but her veins were too thick. She was a man! I felt a chill down my spine and my head reeled; my body went stiff with loathing. I sat up straight in my chair and pretended to watch the dancers, hoping desperately for the music to stop.

When Mr. Kubota and his partner finally returned to the table, I stood up, nearly upsetting the glasses.

"The toilet is in the back of the bar," the dancing hostess told me. For the first time I noticed the strange throaty quality of
her
voice, almost like the voice of a ventriloquist. She picked up the long butt she'd left in the ashtray; she
also
had thick veins on her hands.

"I have to go," I said. "I'm sorry. I remembered something I have to do."

"But we just got here," said Mr. Kubota. "You haven't even finished your drink."

"I have to go now, really. I'm sorry."

Mr. Kubota looked up at me with a faint smile. I looked away quickly.

"What's the matter? One drink isn't going to do your head in, is it?" he said teasingly.

"It isn't that, really; I just remembered something."

"How naughty of you, rushing off like this. I wanted to read your palm," whined the one who had fondled my hand.

"Oh, well, if you must go, then you must go. Here I'll finish your drink." Mr. Kubota reached for my glass.

"I'd like to pay for my drink," I said.

"Don't be silly. It's my treat, remember? And I'm drinking it," he said and gave me a searching look.

"Thanks. I'm sorry, really," I said and struggled around the table. From the corner of my eye I saw him drawing on his companion's cigarette. I'd never seen him smoke before.

I was grateful he didn't leave with me. Faces turned to look at me as I went down the aisle and I knew they were all men, every one of them. I staggered down the staircase, pushed open the heavy glass door, and threw up in the gutter. A young couple stopped and stared at me with disgust. "Sorry," I whispered, and covering my mouth with a handkerchief I rushed out of the narrow alley. It was still drizzling and the neon signs and shop lights glowed on the wet black pavement. My steps echoed against the hard and solid asphalt, but I felt as though I was gliding on a thin surface of two strange worlds—one of them upside down. I felt as if the ground under me would give way any minute, that I would plunge into the wild maze of reflections. And I wanted to fall, fall deep into the earth and never come up again. I stood next to a kiosk, staring blankly into the subway entrance, a gaping hole in the ground with bright light shining from the inside. I went under.

The damp still air and the chalky light of the fluorescent lamps comforted me. Walking deeper into the tiled tunnel I made a mental note of the place: If I ever found myself in a situation where I had no place to sleep, this would be a good place to come. Here, you would never know if it was raining outside, and night and day were all the same.

The sleepy-looking man behind the ticket window sold me a ticket without looking up. I stood on the empty platform and gazed absentmindedly at the
DANGER
! sign on the other side of the rails. The sign warned me of the electrified rails. If people are stupid enough to touch the rails, then let them be electrocuted, I thought. A train came roaring in with a blast of lukewarm air. It was nearly empty. I went in and stood by the automatic door, watching the concrete wall begin to streak, then turn into a dark blur, as the train began to move faster.

I got off at Asakusa, the end of the line. The rain had stopped, so I wandered down the cobblestone street that leads to a famous shrine where people from all over Japan came to ask for their wishes. The stores and shops were shut for the night and I was glad of the darkness and gloom. I roamed through the back alleys of the district until I was completely lost.

A single red light of a police box burned at the end of the alley, and a lone policeman stood still like a statue in front of the box. As if I had done something wrong, I skirted around the policeman and entered a wide street with inns crowding in on both sides. The street seemed unusually bright and noisy for that time of the night, and I realized that I was in the heart of Yoshiwara, the most famous pleasure quarter in all of Japan. A place princely warlords and noblemen, as well as samurais and common laborers, had frequented for as long as the old Edo had been the nation's capital. I started to turn back toward the police box.

"Want some fun, young fellow?" a prostitute called from a doorway.

"What's the hurry, Brother? Come inside, there's nothing better down the street," said another and cackled. I looked straight ahead and walked hurriedly, sidestepping a drunk on the way. Two kimono-clad women blocked my way.

"Say, Big Brother, what's the rush?" said one, smelling of sake and perfume.

"Come on, good-looking, let me take care of you," said the other, seizing me by the arm.

"Let go of me, please," I pleaded.

But the women just laughed and began to pull me toward a brightly lit doorway. At first I thought they were joking, but they were stronger than I'd expected. My God, they're going to drag me inside whether I like it or not, I thought. Gripped with fear, I began to struggle. They're going to take me inside and strip me and rob me, I thought in a panic. I grasped the wrist of the woman on my left, and squeezed hard.

"My, you're strong! You brute," mocked the woman. She had a pimple on her forehead. I looked at her neck to see if she had a big Adam's apple. She was a woman, all right, but not much to look at. The other woman was shorter and had her eyelids painted black with greasy paint.

"Please let me go; I don't want to hurt you," I said to them.

"Hurt us?" They started to cackle. "We want to give you a good time, silly."

"What's going on?" shouted a short stocky man in a
happi
coat, coming out of the doorway. "Is he giving you trouble? What are you doing with a boy?" His thick forearms were covered with tattoos.

"It's all right, Hatchan; we can take care of him," said the taller one.

"See, Big Brother, there's no use fighting us. Be nice and I'll make you feel good," said the short one.

Suddenly I wished that Mr. Kubota had been with me. This was worse than being in a room full of painted men. And why wasn't that policeman patrolling the street? Maybe I should kick the women in their shins and run. I knew I could easily disable them with a couple of swift blows, but what about the mean-looking lout inside the doorway? Could I take care of him with a kick in his groin? Maybe the policeman would come running if I shouted loud enough. While all this was going through my mind the two women continued to drag me toward the inn. I was about to use karate for the first time when I heard a voice behind me.

"Let go of him." It was an order. I turned my head and saw Sensei.

"I said let go of him!" he said again in a low hiss. The women dropped my arms and stepped back.

"Well!" the one with the pimple said in a miffed voice.

"A friend of yours, I suppose," said the other.

"That's right. Now, go on," said Sensei.

"Why don't you keep him off the street then? He doesn't look old enough to shave," said the short prostitute.

"Let's get out of here, Kiyoi," said Sensei.

As we walked in silence down the middle of the street, I kept thinking that Sensei hadn't had to show himself to me in a place like that, that he could have gone the other way and left me to fend for myself. A few prostitutes called to us but we paid no attention and they didn't come near us. At the edge of Yoshiwara, Sensei hailed a taxi, and we sped through the dark, deserted streets of Tokyo.

"Sensei," I started to say.

"No need to explain, Kiyoi. Let's just say we were out for a little social study," he said.

"Yes, sir."

When I got out in front of my apartment, Sensei rolled down the window and said, "Kiyoi, sometimes a little social study is a good thing for us artists. You
are
an artist, remember that."

"Yes, sir."

"Get a good night's sleep," he said and ordered the driver to head toward Takata-no-Baba.

After the incident at the bar I avoided Mr. Kubota for a time, but in the end I went back to the gymnasium. Besides being a good teacher, he was my neighbor, and, as Tokida would say, whatever he did on his own was his business. And for his part, Mr. Kubota acted as if nothing had happened, so I continued to take lessons from him, though not as often as before.

I was quite surprised one Saturday morning in September, when Sensei came to see me. He seemed distressed, his eyes were bloodshot, and his face bristled with heavy stubble. Through the doorway I could see a taxi parked with its motor running.

"I'm glad I found you at home," said Sensei, breathing heavily.

"What happened?" I asked anxiously.

"Quickly, get dressed. I'll tell you in the cab. Tokida's been hurt."

"Oh, no!"

"He's alive. Hurry!"

"What happened, Sensei?"

"It seems Tokida was in a riot."

"I knew it! How bad is he?"