chance Grandmother would understand that I wanted to be a cartoonist. I should have known better.
But even so, nothing could dampen my spirits. Perhaps Grandmother will soften someday, I thought as I walked on the busy street toward the train station. I traced in my mind every detail of Sensei's studio, repeated some of the things he had said, and chuckled to myself.
For no reason I stopped in front of a restaurant and stared absentmindedly at the sample dishes in the window. There were rows of plastic noodles, meats, and fish cakes made out of rubbery material, looking ghastly in the milky light of fluorescent lamps. Ordinarily the sight would have sickened me, but suddenly I felt hungry. I'll order the most expensive dish, I said to myself, and walked in.
***
It was dark when I got home. I squeezed around my bicycle that took up most of the porch, kicked off my shoes, and went in. I'd been living there by myself since I'd left Grandmother's house. The square eight-mat room, about twelve by twelve feet, had a flush toilet by the porch, a washbasin, a tiny closet, and a big sliding window. There were no cooking facilities so I ate all my meals out. It was housing for the poor, the kind of place the old-time residents of Tokyo used to call the eel's bed.
With a good deal of satisfaction I looked around my room in the harsh light of the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was quiet. The only noise came from the round alarm clock with
two bells on top, beating like my heart. I looked in the chipped mirror above the washbasin and grinned at myself. Then I filled the kettle and turned the hot plate on. Grandmother had given them to me; she said the hot plate would keep me warm on cold winter nights.
I lit a candle and turned out the overhead light, and thought about the day. Often I read the books I liked by candlelight. Grandmother would never have allowed it. Also she never let me stay up late. It was good to live alone.
I had nearly fallen asleep at my desk when I heard a knock on my door. It was my next-door neighbor, Mr. Kubota. There was a slight tinge of red around his eyes. Drinking, I thought. He was about twenty-one, and his short hair was always neatly parted in the center. He was studying literature at a university, and he also held a second-degree black belt in karate. I had been to his room several times and had beer with him, but this was the first time he came to see me.
"How goes it, Sei-san?" he asked. "Something the matter with your lights?"
"No, I was just thinking," I said, turning on the overhead light. "Can I pour a cup of tea for you?"
"No, thank you, that would sober me up. I'm on my way to the Ginza. A little drinking with some bad friends, you know. I saw your candle burning and thought you'd blown a fuse or something."
Suddenly I thought of Sensei.
"Mr. Kubota, you know who Noro Shinpei is, don't you?"
"The cartoonist?"
"Yes. I'm his pupil."
"What do you mean?"
"I went to see him today and asked him if I could study with him and he said yes."
"Remarkable. Wait a minute, I'll be right back," he said and was gone. In a moment he was back with a half-filled bottle of port wine.
"This calls for a celebration. Here, have some, it'll get your
circulation going." He handed me the bottle. I poured him some wine in a teacup.
"Tell me what happened," he said as he drank from the large cup. I told him about Sensei with great excitement. It was wonderful to have a good listener.
"Remarkable," he said again. "I feel as though I'm hearing a story from another ageâmaster and disciple. If you want to learn something, seek out a master. Congratulations. Enjoy what's left in the bottle; I must be off," he said and left me.
I returned to my desk and looked in my diary for the entry I'd made the night I'd moved into the apartment.
I am going to be a famous cartoonist,
read the entry.
THREE
The next day I arrived at the studio at ten in the morning. Sensei and Tokida were already at work,
But even so, nothing could dampen my spirits. Perhaps Grandmother will soften someday, I thought as I walked on the busy street toward the train station. I traced in my mind every detail of Sensei's studio, repeated some of the things he had said, and chuckled to myself.
For no reason I stopped in front of a restaurant and stared absentmindedly at the sample dishes in the window. There were rows of plastic noodles, meats, and fish cakes made out of rubbery material, looking ghastly in the milky light of fluorescent lamps. Ordinarily the sight would have sickened me, but suddenly I felt hungry. I'll order the most expensive dish, I said to myself, and walked in.
***
It was dark when I got home. I squeezed around my bicycle that took up most of the porch, kicked off my shoes, and went in. I'd been living there by myself since I'd left Grandmother's house. The square eight-mat room, about twelve by twelve feet, had a flush toilet by the porch, a washbasin, a tiny closet, and a big sliding window. There were no cooking facilities so I ate all my meals out. It was housing for the poor, the kind of place the old-time residents of Tokyo used to call the eel's bed.
With a good deal of satisfaction I looked around my room in the harsh light of the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was quiet. The only noise came from the round alarm clock with
two bells on top, beating like my heart. I looked in the chipped mirror above the washbasin and grinned at myself. Then I filled the kettle and turned the hot plate on. Grandmother had given them to me; she said the hot plate would keep me warm on cold winter nights.
I lit a candle and turned out the overhead light, and thought about the day. Often I read the books I liked by candlelight. Grandmother would never have allowed it. Also she never let me stay up late. It was good to live alone.
I had nearly fallen asleep at my desk when I heard a knock on my door. It was my next-door neighbor, Mr. Kubota. There was a slight tinge of red around his eyes. Drinking, I thought. He was about twenty-one, and his short hair was always neatly parted in the center. He was studying literature at a university, and he also held a second-degree black belt in karate. I had been to his room several times and had beer with him, but this was the first time he came to see me.
"How goes it, Sei-san?" he asked. "Something the matter with your lights?"
"No, I was just thinking," I said, turning on the overhead light. "Can I pour a cup of tea for you?"
"No, thank you, that would sober me up. I'm on my way to the Ginza. A little drinking with some bad friends, you know. I saw your candle burning and thought you'd blown a fuse or something."
Suddenly I thought of Sensei.
"Mr. Kubota, you know who Noro Shinpei is, don't you?"
"The cartoonist?"
"Yes. I'm his pupil."
"What do you mean?"
"I went to see him today and asked him if I could study with him and he said yes."
"Remarkable. Wait a minute, I'll be right back," he said and was gone. In a moment he was back with a half-filled bottle of port wine.
"This calls for a celebration. Here, have some, it'll get your
circulation going." He handed me the bottle. I poured him some wine in a teacup.
"Tell me what happened," he said as he drank from the large cup. I told him about Sensei with great excitement. It was wonderful to have a good listener.
"Remarkable," he said again. "I feel as though I'm hearing a story from another ageâmaster and disciple. If you want to learn something, seek out a master. Congratulations. Enjoy what's left in the bottle; I must be off," he said and left me.
I returned to my desk and looked in my diary for the entry I'd made the night I'd moved into the apartment.
I am going to be a famous cartoonist,
read the entry.
THREE
The next day I arrived at the studio at ten in the morning. Sensei and Tokida were already at work,
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