In high school, the two of them each started submitting work to publishers, but Mogi was always the one who came closer to winning the big prizes. His finely detailed drawings had become more impressive since elementary school, and his character designs were brilliant. Before long he’d been paired with an editor and was told he’d make his debut while he was still a student. Yoshirō was full of pride for his friend.
But at some point, Mogi seemed to start thinking of Yoshirō as a burden. He stopped asking him to help with inking drawings, and then he even stopped sharing his drafts. By the time Yoshirō realized he was no longer being consulted, Mogi had already found engagement elsewhere, as an assistant to a manga artist in Hakata. At times he would even skip school to work with the man, bowing his head in quiet apology to Yoshirō, who was perplexed by the change in his friend.
“We won’t learn anything if we take our advice from people whose abilities or situation are too different,” Mogi said to him. “Besides, haven’t you had enough of this? You’ve always pushed yourself to the limit, haven’t you, listening to my stories.”
It had been many years since Mogi had moved from Tokyo to the rural town of Ōita. But he spoke in clear language, free of dialect, and chose his words with care. There was no disguising the pity in his voice.
Yoshirō couldn’t draw the way Mogi did. No matter how he practiced, he didn’t seem to improve, and his work was always panned. He had managed to make it to two competition finals, but after that, progress was slow. He didn’t have Mogi’s talent. There was simply no way he would ever be able to create gorgeous, stylish pictures like those splendid works of art, unless he could find a way to be reborn as someone very different from who he was then. That being the case, he had no choice but to draw his own pictures, in his own way. Instead of making himself miserable over what he couldn’t draw, he decided to focus on what he could draw. That’s how he kept himself going, and Mogi understood how he felt. Or so Yoshirō thought.
“There’s probably something else you…that is, a different kind of talent that you have. Right? So I think it would be wrong of me to lead you astray, down my own path. And me too—I want to be with the kind of people who can understand me on a deeper level.”
“But you said my work was interesting, didn’t you?” Yoshirō said in a trembling voice. Mogi always had something kind to say about Yoshirō’s work. How happy it had always made him! He knew there was no way he’d find success as an artist as quickly as Mogi had done. But it would be nice if Mogi would at least do him the kindness of letting him help out as an assistant. No matter how desperately Yoshirō tried to find the right words, Mogi just shook his head.
“Your skills are weak, but your personality is too strong. Besides, I can’t let someone who’s basically an amateur touch my work. It will hurt the quality.”
Yoshirō was stunned at the flat refusal, but Mogi continued. “You’re not going to succeed in this business relying on the kindness of others! I’m serious about becoming a manga artist. This isn’t a game!”
“I’m not playing around, either,” Yoshirō retorted. “I mean it…”
Yoshirō had always wanted to be a manga artist. He wanted to say so, but the words stuck in his throat and wouldn’t come out. Mogi burst out laughing. The laughter seemed to ooze from his mouth of its own volition.
“Oh please, stop,” said Mogi. “You’ve made a terrible mistake. Do you understand that your actual skills are at the level of an elementary school student’s notebook scrawl? It’s a miracle that you ever made it to the finals at all!”
Mogi laughed in Yoshirō’s face for a little while longer, then shut his mouth as if he had gotten bored of the whole thing. “Well, let’s each live our lives in the fields that suit us.” Then he left, and Yoshirō and Mogi never spoke another word to each other.
Soon after that, a manga artist from Hakata—where Mogi used to go—became a popular author. His series became a regular cover feature in the magazines and was even made into an anime that was super popular with the kids. Mogi might have worked for him as an assistant until his early mid-twenties. For a while, Yoshirō used to recognize his touch on backgrounds and minor characters, but after a certain point those disappeared completely. He never saw Mogi’s pen name anywhere. What field suited him now?
Yoshirō lifted a pen from the desk, but his hand wouldn’t move. He had been working feverishly until yesterday, with the intention of entering the next open contest, but his passion seemed to have vanished overnight.
He had been mocked, he had failed to get the results he wanted, and still, he had been utterly unable to give up manga. He had worked hard, in his own way, but maybe it was time to quit. He had to rethink his life. He had the feeling that if he didn’t, a day would come that would be even worse than the present one.
The young swordsman was looking at Yoshirō. It seemed to him that he was saying, “Sorry, pal.” Maybe I shouldn’t draw anymore, he thought. It was so complicated, so many things overlapping, including all those past wounds, and so painful. Maybe this was the end.
The young swordsman said nothing. With a sad look on his face, head bowed slightly, Yoshirō stepped away from the desk. That night he crawled into bed without taking a bath.
✦ ✦ ✦
Yoshirō had decided it was time to go home. He would quit his job, let the apartment go, and move home to his parents’ place in Ōita.
The day arrived quickly, and he sent his bags ahead of him. Standing in the middle of his empty apartment, he felt like he might cry. What had he been doing here for all these years?
I don’t think I’ll be back here again. Yoshirō began to walk, holding his small bag and putting the apartment behind him. The plan was to catch a connecting train to Ōita, where his parents lived, but he was finding it hard, somehow, to just up and leave, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to go straight to Mojikō Station.
He wandered aimlessly until he found himself in front of the red-brick building of the former customs house, gazing blankly at the sea. The water was beautiful, sparkling as it caught the summer sunlight, and Yoshirō squinted a little. Although the seascape was the perfect scene to lighten the heart, his spirits sank lower and lower. Going back home meant he’d be leading a boring life that wasn’t very different from life here, that was for sure. Now that I’ve abandoned both my work and my dreams, what will I do…?
“Aha! Found him!” Suddenly a rough voice called out behind him, and when Yoshirō turned, he saw an old man astride a red cargo bike. Yoshirō had seen the man before, in the area around Mojikō Station. He dressed strangely, and Yoshirō was sure he had heard students calling him “Old Red.” As he was thinking this, the man called out to him. “Professor! Hey, Professor! Mitsuhiko said you haven’t been around lately! He’s worrying about you.”
Who was Mitsuhiko? And more to the point, how did this Old Red fellow know him? Yoshirō stared back at him in surprise. “Don’t go!” the old man shouted. “Don’t leave! Don Juan is down in the dumps because he said something rude to you, Professor!”
At that point, it finally dawned on Yoshirō that Mitsuhiko must be Shiba. Now that he thought about it, he had a feeling that was what those ladies down on the waterfront had been calling him, too.
Since that day, he hadn’t been to the Mojikō-Koganemura store, or any Tenderness store, for that matter. That must be what Old Red was talking about. Butt out, old man, he was about to reply, but thought better of it. After all, he was leaving, anyway. Better just to be polite. He tossed the man a quick head bob and Old Red smiled in satisfaction. His already severe face became downright menacing when he smiled, and Yoshirō was a little startled.
“Good. Now, go make it right.”
Yoshirō nodded a few more times, then suddenly broke away and fled toward Mojikō Station. He dashed through the ticket gate without the slightest hesitation and quickly boarded. He didn’t look back, even once the train had started moving.