Chapter 2: Little Holmes

1

“Today, you have a conference at 10 a.m., lunch with a client company’s director at 11:30 a.m., a meeting at Company A at 2 p.m., an appointment at Kyoto Okura Hotel at 3 p.m., and—”

“Kiyotaka, it kills my motivation if you tell me everything at once,” Kunimitsu Ueda said with a sigh, slumping his shoulders at his secretary’s words. “Just tell me what’s next in my schedule after each thing’s over.”

“Understood.” Kiyotaka Yagashira closed his notebook. The dark suit, blindingly white shirt, and modest necktie looked great on him.

Kiyotaka was currently working at UED Consulting as secretary to the company director, Kunimitsu Ueda.

“You’re using a paper notebook in this day and age?” his boss asked as they walked down the office hallway.

“Yes. I could use a tablet, but since I’m old-fashioned, I feel more comfortable with this.” He slipped the small, black, leather notebook into his inner pocket and opened the door to the director’s office. “You have a packed schedule today, but you can relax until the conference begins at 10 a.m. Please have a nice cup of coffee.” He immediately began preparing the drink.

Ueda sat down at his desk and watched Kiyotaka elegantly handle the coffee maker. He’s really grown up, he thought with a smile. At the same time, he recalled a conversation from long ago:

“How many stairs does my house have?” he had once asked Kiyotaka. The young boy had wanted to be quizzed more, so Ueda had casually asked the question, expecting him to run to the stairs to count—but this boy was different from other children.

“Fifteen!” he had answered immediately, his eyes shining.

The hint of pride in his face was startlingly similar to her...Kiyomi. Ueda hurriedly closed his mouth before he could say her name by accident. It was only natural that they were similar. She was his mother, after all.

He smiled at the memory of the past.

“Here you are,” said Kiyotaka, placing the coffee in front of him.

“Thanks,” Ueda answered, picking up the cup. When was that again? he wondered as he spun his chair around, staring at the ceiling.

“If you spin that much, you’ll get dizzy and fall down.”

“No, I won’t. Don’t treat me like an old man. You’re just as bratty as you were as a kid.” Oh, that’s right. He stopped spinning. It was when he was in elementary school.

Takeshi had brought Kiyotaka to his house to play. It wasn’t his first time meeting the boy—that had been at Kiyomi’s funeral when Kiyotaka was two years old. He remembered being surprised by how much the boy had grown in just a few years.

Why did Takeshi bring him to my house in the first place? Ueda stood up and looked out the window, trying to sift through his vague memories. Below him was a view of Umeda, one of Osaka’s major commercial districts.

When Ueda had heard that the owner was looking for people to hire Kiyotaka on a temporary basis, he’d thrown his hat in the ring right away. He had already been wishing he could hire Kiyotaka as a secretary, and his current one was on maternity leave, so the timing had worked out well.

Kiyotaka’s only going to be here for three months. No matter how smart he is, it’s still his first year out of school. By the time he’s learned the job, he’ll be going to the next place...

Or so he’d thought, but they were a month and a half into the term and Kiyotaka had performed his secretarial duties flawlessly from the very beginning.

He’s always been perfect at everything, Ueda thought, sitting down in his chair again. “Oh, right.” He clapped his hands. When I met Kiyotaka, I was married to my ex-wife. Takeshi came to see the house we built in Tezukayama, bringing his son with him. “I was really surprised when I saw you as an elementary schooler,” he sighed, sipping his coffee.

“What was so surprising?” Kiyotaka asked calmly, looking at the laptop in front of him.

“Oh, nothing.”

Ueda took a notebook out of the drawer and opened it to a photo that was tucked inside. It was a picture of him and an intelligent-looking woman with short hair and fair skin. They were standing a bit apart with reserved smiles on their faces. This was Kiyotaka’s mother, Kiyomi.

For Ueda, it’d been love at first sight. When he first saw her on the university campus, his breath had been taken away. She had snow-white skin, sharp jet-black eyes, and a slender, tall frame. She’d seemed like a smart, beautiful woman, but what had struck him the most was her short shiny black hair. She had grown it out later on, but...

Kiyotaka really is the spitting image of her.

“We should head to the conference room,” the young man said, standing up.

“Gotcha.” Ueda nodded, tucked the photo back into the notebook, and returned it to the drawer.

2

It was about seventeen years ago when my close friend, Takeshi Yagashira, visited my new house.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ijuin. I’ve heard about you from my husband, and I’m a fan of your work,” my wife greeted him with a smile. She then looked at Kiyotaka, who was standing next to the author. “And hello, little Kiyotaka. What a sweet boy you are.”

As she’d said, Takeshi’s son was an adorable little boy who had pretty, almost feminine features.

“Right, dear?” she prompted me.

“Yeah,” I answered. I was staying calm, but it took everything I had to hide my unease. How can he look so similar to Kiyomi?

“It’s been a while, huh?” Takeshi said in his usual gentle tone of voice. “Congratulations on the new house.”

Next to him, Kiyotaka quickly bowed and said, “Hello. Thank you for inviting us today.” He didn’t raise his voice, but it was clear and strong without being annoying.

“Come inside,” my wife insisted.

Kiyotaka took off his shoes and placed them neatly at the edge of the entryway. From his greeting and manners, I could tell how well-disciplined the child was. I passed by Takeshi and whispered, “He looks just like Kiyomi.”

Takeshi nodded slightly and said, “Yeah,” with a sad smile on his face. Perhaps it was both a happy and sad thing for his son to resemble the woman he’d loved and lost.

Kiyotaka walked quietly behind the adults, looking around the house curiously but subtly.

“Pretty nice place, eh?” I tapped him on his little back.

He smiled and said, “Yes, it’s a very nice house.”

I wasn’t sure if I was surprised or not by the inoffensive response that seemed to have been prepared in advance. He was exactly the kind of “good kid” that adults hoped for.

I don’t really like “good kids.”

I rolled my eyes and shrugged.

“Ueda, do you like Vories?” he asked me.

“Huh?” I squeaked.

“I’m sorry if I’m mistaken, but this house reminds me of Vories.”

I was flabbergasted. Vories—full name William Merrell Vories—was an American missionary and architect who had worked on a number of Western-style buildings during the Meiji period. His creations were all over the Kansai area, and they were all brilliant. As Kiyotaka had said, I admired the man’s work very much.

Despite my surprise, I felt the urge to tease this smug little brat. “Which part reminds you of Vories?”

There were many other architects active in the Meiji, Taisho, and Showa periods. For example, Goichi Takeda, who had worked on Kyoto City Hall, Alexander Nelson Hansell, and James Gardiner. Their works gave off a similar impression at first glance.

He probably doesn’t know anything about Vories besides the name, I thought, but I soon regretted asking such an immature question. What am I doing? He’s just a little kid.

“Vories originally came to Japan as an evangelist. Not only are his works beautiful in appearance, they seem to pursue quality and efficiency as well. Your house’s old-fashioned design reminds me of missionary architecture, and it’s very efficient, which made me think of Vories,” the young Kiyotaka answered without hesitation.

Before I knew it, my eyes and mouth were wide open. Next to me, my wife also stopped in her tracks, seemingly amazed.

Takeshi scratched his head weakly and said, “Sorry, we’re always surrounded by experts, so I ended up raising a precocious child.”

“O-Oh...” I did hear that the owner was taking the kid around with him. But I think this goes beyond “precocious.” I get that he’s smart, but I don’t like this kid. I couldn’t help but frown.

Kiyotaka quickly shut his mouth and looked down with a slight grimace, seeming to regret being too cocky. It was as if he’d immediately guessed what I was thinking, which made me grimace too. I thought of Kiyomi again.

“What kind of man is your type?” I asked.

“A gentle and dense person,” she answered.

“Dense?”

She chuckled. “I’m more sensitive to things than the average person, so I don’t like people who are as perceptive as I am. I feel more comfortable with people who are kind and oblivious.”

True to her word, she had married Takeshi, a gentle and oblivious man. Even now, the memory gave me a burning sensation, and I let out a small gasp at the realization of how dense I had been. That was her roundabout way of saying she wasn’t comfortable with me...

My feelings for Kiyomi remained unfulfilled. I guess I still regretted never being able to touch her skin or lips before she got married to my close friend. After she passed away, I thought I’d completely forgotten about her, but seeing her lookalike son fully brought back my feelings, as if I’d traveled back in time.

Genetics are amazing, but sometimes they can be terrifying. Even though he wouldn’t remember being raised by her, he was the spitting image of her in both appearance and mannerisms. And now he was sitting on the sofa, completely quiet. He’d probably been hurt in the past by disapproving looks from adults because of his unchildlike behavior. He was behaving himself now, not trying to join our conversation, yet not looking bored.

How many times has he been brought to adult gatherings like this? He was so well behaved that I actually felt sad looking at him.

While my wife and Takeshi were chatting, I got up and crouched down in front of him. “Hey, kiddo, have you ever laughed out loud?”

He blinked at my sudden question and then smiled, his eyes narrowing into arcs. “I have.”

“Really? Can’t imagine it. Mind if I try to make you laugh?”

“Go ahead.” He nodded awkwardly.

“Here’s uncle’s best weird face.” I pulled my cheeks outwards with both hands and put on the best flounder impression I could.

My wife and Takeshi burst out laughing, but Kiyotaka only offered a reserved smile and said, “That’s an interesting face.”

“Ugh, what a calm kid. Just you watch, I’ll make you laugh.”

This time I took a forceful approach, tickling him.

“Wait, stop that. Stop—ha ha! Aha ha ha! Please have mercy!”

As I tickled his armpits and stomach, he finally laughed out loud, his face bright red as he wriggled around.

“Oh, so you do know how to laugh.”

“That wasn’t fair!” He pouted and glared at me, probably embarrassed. Thanks to his flushed cheeks, he finally seemed like a kid, which made me happy.

“Hey, Kiyotaka, do you like airplanes?” I asked, peering into his young face.

“Airplanes? Yes, I suppose.”

It was an answer that implied, “I don’t especially like them, but I don’t hate them. If I have to choose one or the other, I like them.”

I grinned and lifted him up. “Well, now you are one!” His body was lighter than I had expected, so it was easy to swing him around.

“Hey, Ueda!” the boy exclaimed. He was horrified at first, but he soon gave up and started to enjoy it. His eyes sparkled.

“Whoa, crash landing! Oh, nice recovery!”

Kiyotaka laughed innocently as we played. Relieved by his smile, I put him down and said, “Time to land.”

“Again, Ueda! I want to be an airplane again!” He clung to my leg and begged like any ordinary kid would.

Maybe no one’s ever played with him like this before. What a cute kid.

“All right, but just one more time.” I picked him up again.

After that, Kiyotaka finally felt like a normal kid his age. When we were done playing airplane, I gave him some riddles and quiz questions, but being the genius he was, he solved them right away.

“Do you have any other questions?” he pressed me, his eyes gleaming. “I like the ones you ask!”

That face of his made me want to listen to his every request, but I really was getting tired at this point, so I smiled wryly and said, “I don’t have any more.”

“Aww...” He sounded disappointed.

“Fine, but this is the last one, and you gotta answer within ten seconds. How many stairs does my house have?”

“Fifteen!” he answered instantly.

I didn’t know what to say. I was sure that he’d run off to count them. It was the right answer—my house did have fifteen stairs.

“You can’t just take a shot in the dark!”

“I didn’t! I saw them before.”

“You can tell how many stairs there are just by looking at them?”

“Um, of course?” He frowned like it was completely normal.

“You’re just like Holmes, kiddo.”

“Holmes?”

“Sherlock Holmes. You know him, right?”

“I know of him, but I haven’t read the books.”

“Huh, that’s surprising. The main character is a detective with a unique observing eye, just like you. All right, from now on, I’m calling you Holmes.”

I patted the boy on the back. In all honesty, the nickname was an out for me. It was a way to prevent myself from accidentally calling him “Kiyomi.”

When the sun began to set, I opened the sliding door to the yard and said, “Let’s have a barbecue.”

That had been the plan from the start, so the preliminary work was already done. My wife took the tray of prepared ingredients out of the fridge. I lit the fire and looked at Kiyotaka, expecting a happy face, but I got the opposite.

“What, you don’t like barbecues?”

“I’ve never done it before.”

“Oh, so it’s your first time. Today’s your lucky day, then.”

“Is it sanitary to cook and eat food outside?” he murmured hesitantly.

“Heat kills germs, so it’s fine.”

He frowned, seeming unconvinced. At first I was annoyed, thinking this kid was a clean freak, but I quickly remembered Takeshi telling me that the owner had been overprotective of him since Kiyomi had passed away from a cold that had gotten progressively worse. He hadn’t been allowed to go to bacteria-ridden places like nursery school or kindergarten; instead, he had accompanied the owner everywhere. Because of that, he was constantly catching colds now that he was in elementary school without any resistance to germs.

The owner was a daring man, so I couldn’t believe he had such a sensitive side to him. His daughter-in-law’s death must have been so shocking that he’d become afraid of losing his grandchild too.

I guess it’s not the kid’s fault he ended up a clean freak, considering how he was raised.

“Come here, Kiyotaka,” I beckoned.

The boy nervously approached me.

“Will you help me start the fire?” I asked, picking up the tongs.

His eyes widened in surprise. “Can I?” He’d probably never been allowed to go near fire before because of the danger.

“Yep, put on these gloves and use the tongs to put charcoal on the—oh, crap.” I facepalmed.

“What’s wrong?” Kiyotaka tilted his head.

“I forgot to buy a firelighter. This’ll be tough without one.”

“Is it hard to start a fire without one?”

“Yeah, we can burn newspaper and use that, but it’ll take a ton of effort. We’ll have to give up on the barbecue and cook with the hot plate inside,” I said, patting the boy on the head.

He frowned for a bit before saying, “Oh, we might be able to start the fire quickly with newspaper if we do this.” Using the tongs, he laid out the relatively flat pieces of charcoal, then arranged the rest in the shape of a well surrounding them. “Try putting the burned newspaper in the middle.”

“Gotcha.”

I lit a piece of newspaper on fire and put it inside the well. The flame continued to burn vigorously, igniting the charcoal with a crackle in a matter of minutes.

“That really was fast,” I remarked.

“Yay!” The boy pumped his fist, eyes sparkling.

“Kiyotaka, help me fan the flames.”

“Okay!”

My wife and Takeshi laughed as they watched us.

“They look like father and son,” said my wife.

That seemingly innocuous remark made my heart ache, but at the same time, it filled me with an inexplicable sense of joy.

Once the fire was stable, I put down the wire mesh and let Kiyotaka grill the meat and vegetables. He was having fun, but he also seemed to be worrying about sanitation again.

“Kiyotaka, it’s good to be clean, but that doesn’t mean cleanness is everything. The world’s full of germs, and in order to fight ’em off, you gotta take some in and overcome them. The reason you’re weak is ’cause you weren’t exposed to enough germs growing up.”

He nodded.

“I dunno if the owner’s worried about you, but when he was your age, he was playing in the mud, and look how healthy he is now. Listen up, Kiyotaka,” I said in a strong tone of voice. “It’s all about balance. Stay clean, but don’t be scared of germs.”

Kiyotaka looked straight up at me. He was a smart kid, so I was sure he understood what I meant. After some time, he nodded firmly and said, “I understand.”

As I thought.

While stuffing his face with the meat and vegetables he had grilled, he grinned and said, “It’s delicious. I can’t get enough of it.”

I knew it was shameless of me, but I found myself wishing that I could be another father figure to him.

3

After that, whenever I had time, I went to Kyoto and visited the antique store Kura in Teramachi-Sanjo. Kiyotaka always went there after school instead of going home. He’d sit at the end of the counter and do his homework or read a book.

“Hey there, Holmes,” I said as I came in.

“Ueda, would you please stop calling me that already?”

Whenever he said that, it meant there was a new customer in the store. Anyone who didn’t know me would be startled by a grown man calling out to “Holmes” upon coming in. So Kiyotaka would always tell them, “He only calls me that as a nickname.”

Knowing all of this, I said, “What’s the big deal?” and sat down beside him.

In front of me, Takeshi was writing his manuscript as usual. It had been three years since his debut as an author, and he was already a popular history novelist.

Kiyotaka noticed that his father was focused on his work and stood up, asking, “Are you fine with coffee, Ueda?”

“Sure, thanks.”

Recently, Kiyotaka had begun brewing coffee. I smiled as I watched him go into the kitchenette, thinking about how he’d grown in the short time I hadn’t seen him. Before long, he’ll become a man and look less like Kiyomi. It was a sad thought, yet I wanted it to happen soon.

The customer, a woman in her forties, nervously approached the counter and said, “Excuse me...”

However, Takeshi was absorbed in his writing and didn’t notice her.

Is this guy even capable of watching the shop? I groaned inwardly as I tapped him on the upper arm. “Manager, you’ve got a customer.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He put his hand on his head apologetically, seeming like he really hadn’t noticed. “Please have a seat,” he offered, gesturing to a chair.

Kiyotaka came out from the kitchenette holding a tray. He’d prepared coffee for the customer as well. After placing the cups in front of everyone, he silently sat back down at the end of the counter so that he wouldn’t be in the way.

I couldn’t help but put on a strained smile. This kid is the complete opposite of the dense Takeshi.

“I’d like to request an appraisal,” the woman said stiffly. It was probably the first time she had brought something to an antique store.

“Our appraiser is currently away, so we’ll hold on to the item for now. May I have a look at it first?”

“Y-Yes, here it is.” She nervously took a bundled-up towel out of her bag. “It belonged to my father before he passed away, and I’m wondering if it could be a real Raku tea bowl.” She gently unwrapped the towel, revealing a short, cylindrical, jet-black tea bowl with an unpolished texture. It was reasonable to think it could be Raku ware.

Is it real? I leaned forward a bit, observing the item from afar.

“Ah, even I can identify this. It has a similar aura to Raku ware, but it’s not,” Takeshi answered smoothly.

Holy crap! Takeshi was always depressed about not being able to appraise. When did he learn how?

“Does that mean it’s fake?” the woman asked, disappointed.

“Not exactly... Err...right, it’s an imitation.”

It was weird how stilted Takeshi’s speech was.

“Um, how much would I get if I sold it?”

“Err, let’s see...” He glanced at the end of the counter, where his son was sitting.

Kiyotaka quickly held up an open hand in a way that the customer wouldn’t see it.

“Fifty thousand—” Takeshi started, but his son immediately shook his head. “Oh, sorry. It would be about five thousand yen.” He cleared his throat to distract from his mistake.

“I see...”

A quality Raku tea bowl could easily go for seven digits. The woman slumped her shoulders in disappointment and left the store.

I looked at Takeshi, dumbfounded. “Did you just...ask Kiyotaka?” For an appraisal? I was so shocked that I couldn’t even finish my question.

Takeshi laughed weakly and said, “He’s always had a good eye, and thanks to dad’s special education, he’s a great connoisseur despite his age. Even dad’s friends are singing his praises.”

You would normally expect a parent to sound proud of that, but Takeshi’s tone of voice was nothing of the sort. At first, it seemed like he was simply lamenting the precociousness of his child, but there was something lurking behind that—jealousy, probably.

I suddenly remembered Takeshi’s debut work: a story about a teacher who was hopelessly jealous of his genius apprentice.

“Oh...” So that was a story about you.

Takeshi must have loved Kiyotaka, who resembled his beloved late wife, more than anyone could imagine. But even though he loved his son, he was jealous of the boy’s natural talent. There must have been nowhere for his inner struggle to go, so he’d taken up the pen to vent it all out.

I nodded subtly to myself, finally understanding why Takeshi had started writing novels. I remember being surprised when he’d won an award, but at the same time, it hadn’t seemed strange. He had always been the artsy type. At first glance, he seemed like a nice, mild-mannered man with no special features, but he was pretty good at the cello, which his foster parents had taught him. Everyone had been amazed when he’d played it at a university event because he was so different from his usual self.

“I didn’t know Yagashira had such a skill... How wonderful,” Kiyomi had murmured enthusiastically, holding her hands in front of her face as if praying. That was probably what had attracted her to him in the first place.

Disgusted by the stinging pain in my chest, I looked at Kiyotaka, who was quietly reading a book. The title on the cover was Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly, my heart was filled with affection. He really did resemble Kiyomi with those downcast eyes of his.

I sighed. This kid is gonna be the end of me.

4

Some time after that, I divorced my wife. Our marriage hadn’t even lasted three years. There were several contributing factors, but the final nail in the coffin was the fact that I cheated. I had to sell the house in Tezukayama to pay the huge settlement.

Before the sale, I invited a bunch of friends to the house for what I called a scold-and-console-this-stupid-man party. Takeshi and Kiyotaka came too. The only things left in the bare-walled living room were a table and a sofa. My friends chowed down on the food I’d ordered, drank champagne and wine, laughed about how stupid I was, and patted me on the shoulders and back. If any women were around, they would probably have glared at me and aired their criticisms, but only men were there. They showed sympathy, I guess because they could understand how I felt even though they wouldn’t have done something so dumb themselves.

“Were you putting up with it for too long?”

“Nah, it really is my fault. My wife was good to me.”

As I talked to my friends, Kiyotaka stared at me from a short distance away. I noticed his gaze, walked up to him, and said, “Thanks for coming to such a heavy gathering. It’s not good for your upbringing, though. Actually, I guess it’s a good example of what not to do.” I laughed and patted his head.

Kiyotaka looked up at me and asked, “Why did you cheat on your wife?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’?” His clear eyes made me feel so dirty. I looked away in shame.

“Did you do it on purpose?” he continued.

I flinched and squeaked, “What?”

“If you were serious about doing something wrong, you’d make sure you didn’t get caught, right? And even if you did get caught, I think you’d be able to apologize to your wife and convince her to stay.”

My heart pounded furiously as I listened to him.

“Did you cheat on purpose to make yourself the villain so that you could get divorced?”

I placed a hand on my forehead, lost for words. Kiyotaka had seen through me perfectly.

“That’s my little Holmes of Kyoto,” I said with a self-deprecating laugh.

Indeed, I had deliberately gotten caught cheating because it was getting painful to stay with my wife. The final blow had been when she went into my study and looked at the notebook I’d kept ever since my school days. There was a photo of Kiyomi tucked into it. To be precise, it had stayed tucked into it. I could never bring myself to take it out.

The photo had been taken at a university gathering before she had started dating Takeshi. It was the only time I’d managed to get a picture of just the two of us. At the time, I’d been hoping to go out with her eventually. She really was cute, smiling and standing next to me with her short hair tucked behind her ears. She’d later grown out her hair, though...because she’d heard that Takeshi liked girls with long hair.

“What’s this picture?” my wife asked with a stern expression. “This girl...looks just like Kiyotaka. Don’t tell me that boy is the child of you and this woman.”

I almost laughed. I couldn’t believe she’d come to that conclusion. If only it were true.

I quickly tried to correct the misunderstanding. I explained that the woman was my first love, which had never bore fruit. That she’d gotten married to my best friend before I’d even had a chance to kiss her. That since I could never have her, she remained a dazzling existence in my life, and I couldn’t throw away the photo.

“In that case, she’s a terrible person, having your child while being married to Ijuin. There were girls like that at my school too; they acted pure on the outside but secretly slept around. She must be one of them.”

I knew she was only saying that on the spur of the moment, fueled by jealousy. But I couldn’t just excuse the accusation. That said, I didn’t get angry right then and there. It was my own fault that she’d felt the need to search my desk and say those things. I’d probably made her anxious.

I calmed her down and told her that the woman really was only my first love, we’d never kissed, and I’d simply forgotten to take the picture out after all this time. I also said that it was awfully sad to hear such things said about a woman who was no longer in this world.

My wife broke down in tears and apologized.

“No, it was my fault for making you worried,” I said, but it was too late. After that confrontation, my heart distanced itself from her. There was no saving our marriage, which now felt painful to me.

I sighed and looked down at Kiyotaka, who was still staring up at me. “Are you worried about me?” But before I could continue with, “You’re a nice kid,” he shook his head.

“I’m not worried.”

“Huh?”

“Because...you look like you’ve had a weight lifted from your shoulders.”

I put my hand on my forehead again. He got me.

One of my friends barged into the conversation. “Man, you got caught cheating and had to pay a ton for the divorce settlement? Ouch.” It was a rude remark, but I preferred that over people treating me with caution.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Where’re you gonna live?”

“I’m gonna camp in my office in Umeda for now.”

“That sucks.”

“Yep.”

Alimony in the case of cheating was typically one to three million yen if there were no kids, but since I’d agreed to my wife’s demands without a fuss, I’d had to sell the house. It really was the worst possible situation from an outsider’s point of view, but I didn’t feel all that depressed.

“Wanna buy a painting while you’re spending all that money? Think of it as making a fresh start.”

My friend was an art dealer, and every now and then he offered me a good piece that came in.

“A painting?”

“Yeah, it’s by one of the artists you like. It’s in the car—mind if I bring it in?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

I loved art, though I had no eye for it. Maybe he’s right; it could be a good idea to buy a painting with the little money I have left and make a fresh start.

My friend went to his car and brought the painting into the living room. He cleared some space on the table and put down the cloth-wrapped canvas.

Others gathered around, laughing and saying things like, “Oh, you brought a painting?” and “You’re selling Ueda art at a time like this?”

“It’s a good one,” he said. “You’ll definitely want it.” He grinned and unwrapped the cloth, revealing a painting of a Japanese woman sitting at a table and facing the viewer in a pose that reminded me of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. The art style was so distinctive that even a layman like me could instantly tell who had painted it.

“Léonard Foujita, right?” I asked.

“Yep.”

The artist’s original name was Tsuguharu Fujita. He was a Japanese painter who was active in Paris during the first world war and caught the attention of Picasso at his first solo exhibition. His most famous works were Reclining Nude and the New York-inspired At the Cafe. This painting had the exact same composition as the latter, but the model was different.

“This is said to be Foujita’s wife, Kimiyo,” he explained.

My heart thumped. Léonard Foujita was known for being a man of many relationships. None of his marriages had lasted long until his fifth and final one, when he met his soul mate, Kimiyo. Many people had probably considered him frivolous, but I felt like I understood him and what it was like to think, “This might be the one,” only for it to not work out. Even if he swore eternal love, in the end, he couldn’t stay with them. But Kimiyo was different. Will I be able to meet my own Kimiyo one day?

“How much?” I asked, looking down at the painting.

My friend held up three fingers.

Three million. I think I can manage that somehow.

“This painting is a homage to Léonard Foujita, I see,” said Kiyotaka. “Does three fingers mean that you’re charging thirty thousand?”

Everyone looked at the boy, surprised.

“No, little guy. This isn’t a homage; it’s an actual Foujita painting,” my friend replied with a smile.

“But this isn’t Foujita’s work.” Kiyotaka pointed at the woman’s skin. “The most important characteristic of Léonard Foujita’s paintings is the milky-white skin. He never revealed the secret behind it, but it’s said that he blended calcium carbonate and white lead into the paint. This painting tries to come close to his style and skin color, but it’s definitely not the same.”

Everyone was stunned.

“This painting conveys that it was made out of pure aspiration, not malice,” Kiyotaka continued. “It’s probably the work of someone who admired Foujita. Since they painted Kimiyo in the composition of At the Cafe, they must’ve admired Foujita’s way of life as well. It’s not a counterfeit, and I think it’s a good painting. It’d be worth thirty thousand, Ueda.” He grinned.

My friend was clearly flustered. “Wh-Who is this kid?”

“This is Takeshi’s son, Kiyotaka Yagashira,” I said, putting my hand on the boy’s shoulder. “In other words, he’s the grandson of that owner.”

My friend’s eyes widened. “The grandson of nationally certified appraiser Seiji Yagashira...”

Everyone in the art industry knew the owner’s name. People had also been talking about how he brought his grandson with him everywhere.

“O-Oh, well, he’s pretty smart. I was joking when I said it was a Léonard Foujita painting. Like he said, it’s a homage. So how about thirty thousand?”

Based on his response, he’d known all along that it wasn’t a Foujita painting. His lie was so painfully obvious that it was embarrassing to see, but I nodded and said, “Yeah, it’s a good painting even if it’s not Foujita. I’ll buy it.”

I’ll buy this painting, but our friendship is over, I thought as I picked it up.

5

After that, all of my friends, other than Takeshi and Kiyotaka, left. Takeshi didn’t have much alcohol resistance, so he was sleeping like a log on the lone sofa. The painting I’d bought for thirty thousand yen was leaning against the wall. Kiyotaka looked at it, frowning.

“You’re a nice person, Ueda,” the boy said.

“Because I bought the painting?”

He nodded.

“It’s not by Foujita, but it still took me in,” I explained. “I bet I’d be furious if I’d paid three million only to find out the truth later, but for thirty thousand, I think it’s a really good deal. Thanks, Kiyotaka.” I patted his head and turned to the painting. “I’m gonna hang it in my office in Umeda. It’ll represent a fresh start.”

“Do you want to get married again, Ueda?” he murmured, still looking at the artwork.

I smiled wistfully and said, “Not now, but it’ll be great if I feel up to it one day.”

The boy looked at me without saying anything. Though he was mature for his age, his eyes were full of innocence.

“Remember this, Kiyotaka: there’s a saying that being loved in a marriage makes you happy, but I think that generally applies more to women.”

He nodded.

“Even if a woman marries the man she loves the most, she still won’t be happy if he doesn’t show her any love. In that case, it’s better to marry the person who’ll love her the most, even if she only loves him second or third best, and receive all of his love. Now, I’m sure there are exceptions, but I think most women are like that. But for men, it’s the opposite.”

“The opposite?”

“Yep. If we don’t marry the woman we truly, truly love, we can’t be happy. Heck, most of us can only put in effort or put up with things if it’s for the sake of the girl we love. Just look at Takeshi. He married the woman he loved the most, so even though she’s gone now, he still seems happy.”

I looked at the man sleeping on the sofa. I’m so damn jealous.

“So, Kiyotaka, make sure you marry the girl you love the most,” I declared, looking back at him. “If it’s just dating, you can go with the second or third best. And sometimes you’ll truly fall in love with a girl after dating her. Men are simple, so we tend to grow fonder of people who love us. But you can’t compromise when it comes to marriage.”

“Okay.” He nodded and looked at Takeshi. “But do you really think dad is happy?”

“Yeah. He’s got you, after all.”

Kiyotaka smiled shyly. His face looked so similar to Kiyomi’s that I choked up.

“Do you remember Kiyomi...your mother?”

I hadn’t intended to ask such a heavy question, but it came out of my mouth before I realized it.

The boy lowered his eyes and frowned sadly. “Only a little. She caught a cold, and when she found out it was the flu, she shut herself in a room in the back of the house. She wouldn’t open the door when I knocked, coughing and saying that she was contagious. I wanted to see her, so I kept knocking, but she never opened the door for me, all the way until she died...” He turned his back to me. “All I remember after that is her lying in the coffin. Her skin was as pale and stiff as a doll.”

I remembered Kiyomi’s funeral and grimaced.

“I know she was worried about my health...but I wanted her to open the door. I wanted to see her even if it meant catching the disease.” His small shoulders were trembling. He must’ve been holding back the urge to cry.

“You can cry if you want to.”

“No. Grandpa always tells me that men aren’t allowed to cry.” He shook his head, still facing away from me.

“He’s right, but it works a little differently. Men are allowed to cry—they just can’t let others see it. I bet even the owner has cried when he was by himself. I have too.” I placed my hands on his shoulders from behind. “Takeshi’s sleeping right now, so I’m the only one here. It’s the same as no one being around. When it’s time to cry, you gotta let it out.” I patted his head and said gently, “You must’ve been lonely, Kiyotaka. You wanted to hug your mom even if it meant catching the flu, right?”

The boy turned around and wailed. I hugged his small frame and stroked his back. As he clung to me and cried, tears welled up in my eyes too. At the same time, for some reason, I felt as though my lingering feelings for Kiyomi had been purified a little. Is this her guidance? I wondered. It wasn’t like me to be so sentimental.

After a while, Kiyotaka stopped crying, wiped his tears, and looked away bashfully. “Please don’t tell anyone that I cried,” he murmured, blushing slightly.

“Hmm, I can’t promise that.”

“What?!”

“Fine, I won’t tell the owner and Takeshi. Man’s word.”

His expression relaxed. He looked at the painting again and said, “I hope you find your Kimiyo one day, Ueda.”

He reverted to his grown-up mode so fast. I shrugged and said, “Yeah, you too.”

We glanced sideways at each other and laughed.

It was truly a nostalgic memory.

* * *

“And that’s how Kiyotaka ended up clinging to me and crying his eyes out, Aoi. He was so darn cute.”

It was 4:30 p.m. and Holmes and Ueda had paid Kura a visit out of nowhere. According to Ueda, they had met with a client at Kyoto Hotel Okura and then dropped by here “as a bit of a treat for Kiyotaka.” He’d then proceeded to reminisce about the past.

“I had no idea that happened,” I said, excited to learn about their past. I had found it surprising that Holmes, a clean freak, enjoyed things like barbecues. So it was all because of Ueda. I nodded in understanding.

Holmes frowned as he sipped his coffee. “Didn’t you promise not to tell anyone that I cried? What happened to ‘man’s word’?”

“Wrong, I said I wouldn’t tell the owner or Takeshi,” Ueda replied confidently.

“Did you?”

“Uh-huh. From the very beginning, I planned on telling the story to your ‘Kimiyo’ if she ever appeared.” Ueda grinned.

Holmes blinked and then his expression softened.

“Kimiyo?” I tilted my head.

“Léonard Foujita’s Kimiyo,” Holmes explained. “A long time ago, Ueda thought a no-name artist’s painting was by Foujita and almost paid three million yen for it.”

“Wh-What?”

“Hey, don’t tell her about that!”

“I’m telling her because you’re always telling my embarrassing stories and none of your own.”

“They aren’t embarrassing; they’re cute,” Ueda insisted.

Their conversation was so funny that I couldn’t help but giggle. “You really are like father and son.”

“We get that a lot,” Ueda said, seeming somewhat happy.

Holmes smiled and nodded. “Yes, I’ve always thought of Ueda as a second father. Despite how it may seem, I’m very grateful for him. He’s had as much influence on who I am today as my father and grandfather.”

Ueda froze in surprise and looked away, clearly flustered. “H-Huh, that’s the first time you’ve said that,” he murmured, his cheeks turning red. “Oh, uh, we should get going.” He hurriedly stood up.

“Yes,” Holmes said, nodding and picking up his bag.

“I’ll drive. I gotta go get the car, so you can take your time leaving.”

Ueda left the store, practically running away. Holmes and I looked at each other and laughed.

“Ueda’s a really good person, huh?” I remarked.

“Yes,” Holmes said quietly, looking down at me. “Aoi, I’m going to break the rule just this once.”

“What rule?”

The moment I asked that, his lips touched my forehead. My heart skipped a beat.

“I’ll be going now,” he said.

“Okay, see you.” I smiled and waved, my heart beating fast.

The door chime rang as he left. I watched him walk north along Teramachi Street. I didn’t know if it was because of the childhood story I’d heard, but his back looked bigger and more mature than before. I felt happy and proud, but at the same time, anxious.

I need to work hard too so that I don’t get left behind. I clenched my fist.