stop. She said for me to thank Sensei for all he had done. She looked beautiful when Grandmother wasn't around. I wondered if she had a suitor. I couldn't imagine anybody who would be right for her.
NINE
As it turned out, I'd gone to see Mother just in time. The following weekend, Mr. Kato came to the inn with a photographer. His editor-in-chief had decided to run a feature article on Sensei and wanted some photographs taken. Sensei was agreeable, and insisted that Tokida and I be included in the picture.
"Not me," said Tokida.
"Come now," coaxed Sensei, "think of your instant fame, the fan mail. Your friends back home."
"Should I shave then?" asked Tokida, rubbing his chin.
"Don't, Tokida," I warned him. "You'll cut yourself all over again."
Tokida was concerned with the way he looked, and that amused me. We weren't so different after all. I took out a comb and smoothed out my hair without looking in a mirror. When the photographer began to set up his equipment I felt nervous and had to go to the toilet. Sensei walked in and stood next to me. From the corner of my eye I saw a fresh-lit cigarette hanging from
the side of his mouth. We looked at the back garden through the narrow slit of a window framing the lush, damp part of the garden like a horizontal scroll. The moss on the rocks looked especially green in the shadow of the inn.
"Kiyoi," said Sensei, looking straight ahead into the garden, "have you ever been in Korea?"
"No, sir."
"Land of the Morning Calm, they call it, a very beautiful country. A land of poets."
I said nothing.
"If you ever feel the need to talk to someone, don't hesitate to come over at any time. Some evening, when you have nothing else to do, come and stay with us."
"Thank you, sir," I said. Tokida must have told him about my father and also that I lived alone. I felt tears well up in my eyes. Sensei walked out before me, leaving a trail of smoke, without looking me in the eye, without saying another word.
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
NINE
As it turned out, I'd gone to see Mother just in time. The following weekend, Mr. Kato came to the inn with a photographer. His editor-in-chief had decided to run a feature article on Sensei and wanted some photographs taken. Sensei was agreeable, and insisted that Tokida and I be included in the picture.
"Not me," said Tokida.
"Come now," coaxed Sensei, "think of your instant fame, the fan mail. Your friends back home."
"Should I shave then?" asked Tokida, rubbing his chin.
"Don't, Tokida," I warned him. "You'll cut yourself all over again."
Tokida was concerned with the way he looked, and that amused me. We weren't so different after all. I took out a comb and smoothed out my hair without looking in a mirror. When the photographer began to set up his equipment I felt nervous and had to go to the toilet. Sensei walked in and stood next to me. From the corner of my eye I saw a fresh-lit cigarette hanging from
the side of his mouth. We looked at the back garden through the narrow slit of a window framing the lush, damp part of the garden like a horizontal scroll. The moss on the rocks looked especially green in the shadow of the inn.
"Kiyoi," said Sensei, looking straight ahead into the garden, "have you ever been in Korea?"
"No, sir."
"Land of the Morning Calm, they call it, a very beautiful country. A land of poets."
I said nothing.
"If you ever feel the need to talk to someone, don't hesitate to come over at any time. Some evening, when you have nothing else to do, come and stay with us."
"Thank you, sir," I said. Tokida must have told him about my father and also that I lived alone. I felt tears well up in my eyes. Sensei walked out before me, leaving a trail of smoke, without looking me in the eye, without saying another word.
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
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