The Ink-Keeper's Apprentice (8 page)

The big-bellowed camera was set up on a tripod, and the photographer was fussing around the worktable, moving inkpots and brushes, taking out what he didn't like, and putting the latest issue of their magazine so the name of the publication showed clearly. Then he made us sit around the table, straightening Sensei's kimono collar. When he was pleased with the arrangement he put some powder on the flash plate and made nine exposures with blinding explosions.

"Why so many?" asked Tokida, blinking his weak eyes.

"This way we're certain to get at least one good shot," replied the photographer.

"I'd like some copies if you can spare them," said Sensei.

"Yes, of course, I'll have extra prints made for all of you. Now may I take a few more outside without the flash? Just Sensei this time."

"Why not?" Sensei complied, and the two of them went down to the garden.

"Are you really going to use our picture?" I asked Mr. Kato.

"Well, my assignment was to get some pictures of Sensei. But
then my editor-in-chief hasn't met you young men. I have to admit it's a brilliant idea, including you two. A famous cartoonist and his two disciples. You don't hear stories like that anymore. I wish I'd thought of it myself. I think I'll tell the chief the inspiration was mine."

"I bet we'll be swamped with boys from all over the place, wanting to be cartoonists," sneered Tokida.

"Wait till your father sees your picture." I tried to humor him.

"That's right, gentlemen, you're going to be famous overnight, and you might as well get used to it. But more important, this article might cinch my promotion, and if it does I'll treat you to a movie, and that's a promise. On second thought, a restaurant, Sensei included," said Mr. Kato.

Tokida was his usual cool self and didn't seem in the least interested in seeing himself in a nationally circulated magazine. But I had a hard time hiding my excitement. Should I have smiled more? Should I have looked serious? Maybe I did smile, but couldn't remember.

I expected it to be at least a month before the article came out, but Mr. Kato was back in less than two weeks. He was in an unusually good mood as he
took
a stack of new magazines out of his briefcase. Fresh off the press, he announced proudly. Tokida and I didn't dare pick up the magazine, but anxiously watched Sensei as he flipped through the pages. And there we were, the three of us in a full-page photograph. Sensei looked more serious than usual, and Tokida looked into the camera with a twisted mouth that was between a smile and a sneer. But it was myself that I secretly pored over. I was nearest the camera and looked larger than the other two, and because of the lens distortion my hands and one
Foot that
stuck out from under the table looked enormous. I wished I hadn't worn the silly grin on my face, but I did look friendly, and the picture pleased me. I looked at least as old as Tokida.

"A good shot, don't you think?" said Mr. Kato.

"Indeed," agreed Sensei. "A historical event. The likeness of Tokida is remarkable. What a trio of vagrants. I'll take five copies for posterity."

"And please take note of the great piece of writing that goes with it," said Mr. Kato. "I'll have you know I have been promoted; that's my literary debut, and I'm inviting you all to dinner as promised." He gave Tokida and me a broad grin.

A short article accompanied the photograph, mostly about Sensei, and a blurb about Tokida and me. Mr. Kato told us the magazine would be distributed throughout the country within a week.

That evening I went to see Grandmother. I knew Mother had told her about Sensei, but I hadn't seen her since then, so I had no idea how she was going to greet me. My visit surprised her, but before she could react I handed her the magazine. She put on her rimless glasses, held the magazine at arm's length, and when she recognized me in the photograph her mouth dropped open in surprise.

"Haa!" she exclaimed softly. She studied the cover, the back cover, inspected the spine of the thick magazine as if to see if it was real, then she went back to the photograph and stared at it.

"That's Sensei." I pointed to my master, realizing she was looking only at me.

"Not a handsome face, but it has dignity. He looks more like an author than a cartoonist," observed Grandmother. "And the one with pimples? Is he the boy from Osaka?"

"Yes, that's Tokida. He's three years older than I."

"A busy face, full of pressure, but intelligent. Some schooling would refine his face." She went back to looking at me. "Do you remember your grandfather?"

"A little. He was tall, wasn't he?"

"Very tall. You've taken after him. He was a handsome man when he was young."

She handed me the magazine. "Read the article for me," she said, closing her eyes to listen. I read her the blurb about Tokida and me, pronouncing my name the way Sensei did.

"'In this special issue, we are pleased to introduce to our readers for the first time our best-known cartoonist, Noro Shinpei, and his talented assistants, Tokida Kenji and Kiyoi Koichi. Tokida, on
the left, is a sixteen-year-old native of Osaka; he has been studying with Sensei for a year. Kiyoi, in the foreground, is a thirteen-year-old middle school student. He was born in Yokohama and attends the Aoyama Middle School here in Tokyo. Although the young men have been previously unknown to the public, our readers have been familiar with their work for some time, for it is Tokida and Kiyoi who put in the superbly drawn backgrounds for all of Noro Shinpei's serials. No doubt we will continue to enjoy their work in the years to come.'"

Grandmother sat still, with her eyes closed. For a moment I thought she had fallen asleep, but then I noticed she was working her lips. She seemed to be struggling not to smile.

"Koichi," she said and hesitated. "Where can I buy a copy of this?"

"I brought this for you."

"I will buy my own."

"Don't be silly, Grandmother. Sensei gave me an extra copy; this one is for you. And even if you wanted to buy one, it won't come out for another week."

"Thank you," she said.

The article caused quite a sensation at my school. Even the upperclassmen and teachers I had never had nodded to me in hallways. I was a celebrity!

"I always thought you were too good," said Abacus, the painting instructor. "Do you expect me to compete with your great master? Here, take this key to the art room and use it anytime you wish after school. As of now you're out of my hands; I refuse to have anything to do with your art education."

"But I don't know how to paint in oils," I protested.

"Nonsense. Noro Shinpei's disciple indeed!"

Abacus had always been kind to me. She gave me an A for everything I did, and she was the only teacher in school who was friendly to me.

But my new fame did nothing to improve my relationship with my classmates. I was never very popular with other students, and I didn't exactly go out of my way to make friends. So I thought it
was strange when one of my classmates approached me the day the magazine came out. All I knew about him was that his parents were dead, and that he was the smartest boy in my grade.

"Hey, wait up, Sei," Mori called out. "Let me walk with you to the station. What made you decide to study cartooning?"

"I was bored with school."

"I don't blame you—school is a bore. I can't wait to be in college. But tell me about your master. Noro Shinpei, a strange pen name, isn't it?"

"He was a political cartoonist during the war," I told him. "Most people don't know that. He was against the war, and you know what that means. He had to go underground. I suppose that was when he adopted the name, to make fun of the military regime, and also to compensate for the fact he never served in the army."

"A brave thing to do, considering those who ruled us. Is he a Communist?"

"I never asked. I don't think so. I don't think a political cartoonist should have a leaning toward any given party. His job is to needle them equally, don't you think?"

"Everybody has to have a viewpoint, though. But I suppose you're right in a way. Is he funny?"

"He is, in a deep way."

"How many mistresses does he have?"

"I don't know."

"Come, Sei, you can tell me. All artists have mistresses. That's where they get their inspiration. Everyone knows that."

"Well, if he has a mistress I haven't met her. His wife is a good person."

"Everybody has a wife; it doesn't mean a thing. So what do you do when you go to your master's place?"

"Mostly I draw."

"No funny faces? Aren't you supposed to be learning to cartoon?"

"You can't go out and start drawing cartoons right away. You have to go through the same kind of training painters go through."

"Sounds like a hard discipline. How about nudes? Have you drawn nudes?"

"Yes. I go to Inokuma's studio twice a week."

"I've always wondered about those models. Are they shaved? I mean, pubic hair."

"Of course not."

"I envy you."

"Anyone can sign up to draw nudes."

"I don't mean that. I mean my future. It seems dull compared to yours."

"Why?"

"Studying economics. I want to make a lot of money. My parents didn't leave me very much. True, my rich uncle adopted me, but it's not the same as having my own money. What I really want to do is study history, but what can you do with a degree in history? I want to be a millionaire, and I intend to make it on my own," he said, and looked at me as if to find out what I thought. We were standing in the square in front of the station and I looked away, pretending to look for my bus.

"How about going to a movie some Saturday morning?" he said. "It's easy to get good seats then. Do you like coffee?"

"I do."

"Good. I know some good places. Bring your drawings, only the nudes. By the way, I know a girl who's interested in you. I'll tell you about her next time we meet," he said just before he got on the bus.

It was strange to hear him say that he wanted to be a millionaire; boys from good families weren't supposed to talk about money. There was something about him that made me feel uneasy. Perhaps it was his intense eyes that were too close together. He gave me the impression that he knew more about the world than the other students. But I decided to have coffee with him anyway—I wanted to find out who the girl was.

The two evenings a week I spent in the life drawing class put a strain on my study time, so my visits to the inn were limited to weekends. I longed for the summer to come. I was full of good intentions: I would study hard to bring my grades up, write something in my diary every day, use up at least ten sketchbooks. But when the vacation began all my resolutions were quickly forgotten. I spent most of my days at the inn.

In the morning, when there was no work, Tokida and I would scan the paper to see what was happening in the city to plan our excursions.

Tokyo is a city of department stores, and that summer one of them installed an escalator, the first to be installed after the war. Tokida and I decided to go there on the grand opening day and try it out. But as it turned out we weren't the only ones. When we arrived, a huge mob was already massed around the entrance. A young woman, wearing what appeared to be a bus conductor's uniform, stood by the escalator greeting the
riders, warning them to watch their step and to hold on to the railings.

"What a fool thing that is," said Tokida in amazement. "Look at her, Kiyoi, she has to stand there and bow to all these idiots who are too lazy to wait for the elevators."

"I don't see how she can stand it," I agreed. "Maybe it's only for today, though."

The escalator seemed like such a big waste to me. I could have run up the staircase faster than those moving steps.

"Let's go down and try it again," said Tokida when we got to the third floor.

"Are we the lazy idiots you spoke about?"

"Only one more time, but let's say hello to her this time."

We went down the staircase and once again waited behind the long line, and when our turn came we bowed to the woman and said hello. She bowed and greeted us mechanically, without even looking up.

"She's a bowing machine," I said.

"She didn't see us," said Tokida. "How would you like to do that all day long? I'd go mad in an hour. They can make a machine to do that, a robot with a loudspeaker sucking out of its mouth."

"But if you worked for someone you'd have to do what he told you," I said, remembering all the clerks who worked for my father.

"I say it's wrong to make people do something like that. I tell you, Kiyoi, I'm never going to work for anybody. I'll shine shoes first."

"I'm not either. I'll shine shoes with you."

We went up to the fourth floor and walked among counters that displayed all kinds of glassware and crystal. Women clerks were arranging and rearranging their wares, trying to look busy. Tokida went up to a large display stacked with fancy glasses on top of one another. There was a mirror behind it and the glass pyramid glittered under the strong light.

"What would you do if I ran my hand along the bottom and brought the whole thing down?" asked Tokida.

"I'd tell them I'd never laid eyes on you before."

"It's good to know you're a friend of mine. Wouldn't it be fun to break everything in a place like this? What do you think the clerks would do?"

"They'd send you back to Osaka, handcuffed this time."

"Don't you ever feel like going crazy sometimes, like smashing something just for the hell of it?"

"Sure, when I'm angry I feel like breaking things, and sometimes I do."

"I must be mad all the time then. It sure is fun to smash glasses. Just the sound of it makes me feel good. Crash!"

"Hey, let's get out of here before you go crazy. Let's go see the van Gogh show; it's around the corner from here."

"All right, let's. Maybe I'll slash some paintings."

The gallery was mobbed but we bought our tickets anyway. A narrow path had been roped off along the walls and we shuffled along with the crowd. We couldn't stop to study a painting, for the guards kept telling us to move on. It was a miserable way to look at the works of a master, but still the paintings fascinated me. I had seen a lot of reproductions on postcards, calendars, books, and such, but never an original. The difference was the comparison between seeing nude paintings and then seeing a live model for the first time. They were the clumsiest paintings I had ever seen, but there was something about all those violent swirls of paint that made my heart beat fast. I looked at Tokida. He was lost to the world. He had his head up against one of van Gogh's self-portraits—the one with a bandage wrapped around his head after he'd slashed his ear with a razor. Tokida was holding up the traffic but didn't seem to be aware of it. That was one thing I was beginning to find out about Tokida. When he got involved in something the world around him seemed to disappear. He had his glasses off and was scanning the painting, square inch by square inch, as though reading fine print.