Mojikō Station was the first stop on the Kagoshima Main Line, which ran from Kitakyūshū in the north all the way down to the city of Kagoshima on the southern tip of the island. Since it was the starting point, the tracks ended right in the station. Yoshirō didn’t know all that much about trains, but there weren’t a lot of places where one could get a good look at the front of the trains up close like that. Actually, the scene was quite popular with tourists, who would often take photos from just outside the gate.
When he first moved to the area for work, Yoshirō, too, was surprised by the sight, and found it fascinating. When he stood at the beginning of the tracks, he felt a surge of happiness at the thought that his personal potential could run on forever from there.
But now it only seemed like the end of the line. Just as Mojikō Station was both the starting point and the terminus for this train, Yoshirō’s possibilities were not stretching off endlessly, but instead gasping their dying breath. He would just keep on doing the same thing, one day after the next.
It was departure time. The bell rang, and the red-and-black face receded into the distance. Yoshirō shook his head once, then left the station.
Summer’s lukewarm evening breeze touched his cheeks. He could smell the salt from the ocean. On the streets, teeming with tourists during the daytime, scarcely a soul could now be seen. He bought a can of beer at a convenience store by the station and made his way toward the seaside across from his home.
The Mojikō Station House was built in 1914 during Japan’s Taishō era and featured an unusual Neo-Renaissance design. It was a national historic landmark with a distinct retro feel, and the area around the Station House was dotted with a number of old buildings from the late nineteenth century to the prewar period. The buildings, including the Station House, were lit up as they usually were at night, but due to the late hour, all was still. It was as if they were holding their breath. Yoshirō opened his beer and nursed it, sip by sip, as he headed down to the waterfront. He passed by a few couples gazing out at the night ocean.
He grimaced at the beer—he wasn’t much of a drinker—and looked up at the sky. The stars were twinkling, and he could hear the sound of the waves rolling gently in. He stopped and cast his gaze out over the sea. Across the channel he could see the city lights of Shimonoseki. Shortly after he had arrived in Mojikō, he’d taken a ride there, on the ferry that ran across the channel. The boat had also stopped at Ganryū Island, which lay between Kyūshū and the mainland. The island had been the site of a famous duel between two great samurai, Miyamoto Musashi and Sasaki Kojirō.
The dusty tale had been tucked away in the back of his mind, half forgotten, but when he had disembarked and was actually standing on the soil there, he felt strangely elated. He had been riveted by statues of the two warriors, swords raised in mutual combat. One day, he thought. One day I’ll be a real illustrator, and turn sublime moments into timeless images like this. Thrilling scenes to give young readers goosebumps, take their breath away, to rise up unbidden in their memories for years to come, even as adults, and they’d talk about how great they were.
He heard a disgusted laugh and then realized it was his own voice. Trying to silence it, he upended the can of beer into his throat, but instead choked on the bubbles. He doubled over coughing, hands braced on his knees, when he heard a voice.
“Kiriyama, isn’t it?”
He wiped his mouth and turned. There was Shiba, surrounded by several older women. Instead of the usual Tenderness uniform, he had on a casual shirt and jeans. The ladies were dressed in finer clothes. Did the guy moonlight as a host at some sort of ladies’ club? Were they his patrons? Yoshirō couldn’t shake the thought.
“Kiriyama, what are you doing here?”
“N-no, I think that’s my line.”
“Are you a friend of our dear Mitsuhiko?” The ladies were bubbly. Yoshirō always wondered where in the world these ladies came from. Shiba always seemed to have an entourage of at least one or two of them in tow. Was it some sort of package deal?
“He’s a customer at the store,” Shiba answered on Yoshirō’s behalf.
“Oh!” As if she had just remembered, a woman in a kimono exclaimed, “He’s the egg sandwich boy, isn’t he?”
How did she know that? Yoshirō was at a loss for words. Watching his mouth open and shut silently, the other ladies murmured their assent: “It’s true!” “That’s him.” Everyone seemed to know who he was, but Yoshirō hadn’t a clue as to how. As he desperately searched his memory, Shiba smiled.
“These are the good people who manage the dine-in space next to the store.”
Ahh, that was it. When he looked at them carefully, he noticed the face of the woman who had reminded him of his mother.
“Oh, do you all work there? Thank you. I eat there all the time.”
“Oh dear, no. Nothing like that!” The woman who looked like his mother waved her hand in front of her face to dispel the idea.
“We all live in the Golden Villa Apartments. That dining room was a social space for residents, but we opened it to the public.”
Yoshirō raised his eyebrows. He knew that the upper floors of the building were reserved for seniors. Right, so then it made sense that the upstairs residents were in the store all the time.