The woman who looked like his mother continued. “I started doing it for the sake of our dear Mitsuhiko, but you have no idea how much spice it’s added to my life.”
The ladies all laughed, and in his sweetest voice Shiba said, “I don’t know how I’d survive without you,” before he turned to Yoshirō. “They keep it spotless in there, so the customers love it, for one thing—”
“Just hearing that from you is thanks enough. And then on top of that, you take us to dinner!”
The ladies explained that Shiba had just taken them out for a fancy dinner at a local place specializing in fugu—blowfish. So, Yoshirō thought idly, it wasn’t that Shiba was a kept man, but still, it was somewhat of a weird relationship.
“Ahh, yes, yes. But, young man, you need to eat something else once in a while, don’t you? It’s not healthy to eat nothing but egg sandwiches and coffee!”
One of them admonished him, as if just remembering, and the rest of them nodded deeply in agreement.
“At least add a salad.”
“Or vegetable juice, that would be fine, too.” They all chimed in, sounding exactly like his mother, and Yoshirō was a little embarrassed. When he ate alone, he usually just wanted to finish fast and use the time for something else—for manga, basically, but what was the point of saying that now?
“Well, I’d better get going,” he said, and started to take his leave. I guess I should stop going to that store from now on, he thought. It’ll be a shame to miss all that delicious coffee, but it’s out of the way.
As he turned to go, Shiba said, “Seems like food is always a low priority for artists.” Yoshirō froze and turned back. Looking half apologetic, half embarrassed, Shiba continued. “I’m a fan of your drawings, Mr. Kiriyama. The truth is, sometimes I sneak a peek at them from behind when you’re working on them.”
As confessions go, it was a mild one, but Yoshirō felt as if his body, flushed with alcohol, had cooled instantly. He exhaled, his breath catching like a draft of cold air in the back of his throat.
Shiba continued, a note of passion creeping into his voice. “You have your own style, don’t you? They’re warm, and gentle, and I think they’re sweet. It’s nice that you have something that you can get lost in that way, isn’t it?”
What was this emotion? Something halfway between anger and shame forced its way up into Yoshirō’s throat. He felt as if he could hear the laughter of his students echoing in his ears, loud voices barking at him, engulfing him. And beyond those voices, Shiba, too, was laughing.
“Shut up!” Yoshirō screamed, waving his arms wildly in front of him, as if he were trying to scare away some creature. “Shut up! Shut up! You don’t know me at all, so you can’t say that!”
He raised his voice so loud he surprised himself. The ladies’ eyes flew wide open, and a couple walking by cast a startled glance his way. His whole body trembling, Yoshirō opened his mouth again.
“I’m trying really hard to live my life, okay? I’ve got my own problems! Maybe it’s hard for people like you to get it, but I’m killing myself here just trying!”
As his emotion mounted, his eyes began to water. Yoshirō bit his lip, but this had been a weakness of his since he was a kid. He whirled and fled. The dam broke and the tears he was trying to hold back flowed freely. How pathetic, he thought to himself. He was certainly old enough to know better, so what was he doing?
He ran until his breath came in ragged gasps and his poorly toned legs screamed in protest. When he finally stopped, he found himself near his own apartment. Shoulders heaving, he wiped away the accumulated mix of sweat and tears. In contrast to his physical state, Yoshirō found that a strange composure had settled over him, and he dragged his exhausted form back to his apartment.
In the kitchen, he drank water, lots of it. Halfway through his third glass, he took a deep breath. Cup in hand, he headed to his room. He settled himself at the black desk that had been with him since his student days and cast his eyes downward. In front of him was a draft of the story he had been drawing until late last night, the hero a young swordsman, his blade swinging valiantly through the air.
“They always make fun of me.”
He ran his fingers lightly over the swordsman’s face. He had always loved to draw, but never knew that it could be an actual profession until third grade, when a new friend—his name was Mogi—transferred to his school and taught him about artists. Mogi came from Tokyo and announced he was going to be a manga illustrator when he grew up. He already owned pro-grade art supplies: a G pen, a round pen, screentone sheets, and Kent paper. He knew how to use everything properly and could even draw all the heroes from the weekly issues of Jump magazine.
Yoshirō had never seen drawings or tools like that before—they were the real thing. Thanks to Mogi, Yoshirō, too, now had a dream. He might have come to it on his own, but Yoshirō imagined that it was Mogi’s arrival that enabled him to really go for it. Mogi’s presence in their shared dream loomed large in Yoshirō’s mind.