The Ink-Keeper's Apprentice

Houghton Mifflin Company
Boston 2006

I am grateful to Nina Ingatowicz
for having persuaded me to write this book
—A.S.

Walter Lorraine Books

Text copyright © 1979 by Allen Say
Introduction copyright © 1994 by Allen Say

All rights reserved For information about
permission to reproduce selections from this book,
write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company,
215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

www.houghtonmifilinbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Say, Allen.
The ink-keeper's apprentice / Allen Say
p. cm
Summary A fourteen-year-old boy lives on his own in Tokyo
and becomes apprenticed to a famous Japanese cartoonist.
ISBN 0-395-70562-2
[1 Cartoonists—Fiction. 2. Artists—Fiction 3 Japan—
Fiction ] I. Title
PZ7 S2744In 1994 94-13749
[Fic]—dc20 CIP
AC

PA ISBN-13 978-0-618-21613-0
PA ISBN-10 0-618-21613-8

Printed in the United States of America
HAD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To my daughter, Yuriko

This book was first published in 1979. Since then I have illustrated nine picture books, writing six of them myself. Looking back on this small body of work, I see that my stories are essentially autobiographic. I did not plan this consciously, but
The Ink-keeper's Apprentice
set the tone. So in this reissue of my homage to my great teacher (sensei), Noro Shinpei, I decided to give my real name to the narrator. In Japanese it has three syllables, Seii, but the last i is usually dropped. My father had adopted the English spelling long ago, and over the years I've become attached to this hybrid of a name.

In 1982, I returned to Japan for my first-grade class reunion and discovered that my mentor, with whom I had lost contact for twenty-five years, was alive and well. We met in a Tokyo cafe and talked of the old days. His wife had died a few years before, and his grown children had left home. Tokida, my fellow apprentice, had returned to Osaka and was not heard from again. I reminded Sensei of the lesson he had taught me, that to draw is to discover. "And to be astonished," he now added. Then he led me to a well-known Shinto shrine and bade me to make a wish. When I left him, he said he had prayed that I would become a great artist. I had prayed that Sensei would live a long life.

Last year, when
Grandfather's Journey
was published, I sent him the first copy I received from my publisher. And Sensei replied:

Thank you for the book. When I opened the package and saw the cover, I swallowed a breath. It is a splendid work. The boy who used to run around on the roof of the inn where I worked has become a mature artist. Next year I will be an old man of eighty, but I plan to go on living awhile, to watch your craft deepen.

Allen Say, 1994

E
NGLISH CONVERSATION SCHOOL
, said a small hand-painted sign on the door. I looked at the crumpled newspaper article in my hand to check the address, and my heart sank. No mistake, I'd come to the right place.

I had never been in this part of Tokyo, and the shabbiness of the neighborhood depressed me. The dead-end street was full of cracks and puddles, and the two-storied office building in front of me looked more like a run-down barracks than a place of business. I looked blankly at the rain-soaked side shingles and thought of rows and rows of decaying teeth stacked on top of one another. The place just didn't seem like the home of the great man I'd come to meet.

Suddenly a deafening noise exploded, and the screeching sound of electricity drowned me. The large speaker of a nearby movie theater began to blast away the theme music, announcing the start of the first afternoon show. I looked back toward the bustling train station where I'd gotten off a train only a few minutes before, and wondered if I should go back. Bicycles darted every which way, enormous shiny American cars cruised like the lords of the avenue, charwomen rummaged among the ruins of bombed buildings to bag whatever trash they could find. In between the blasts from the speaker I heard the calls of the shoeshine boys, and felt a chill. I didn't know what to do.

I stood there a good five minutes, hoping for someone to come out of the building—for anything to happen. But nobody came out, and nothing happened. Finally, more to get away from the noise than anything else, I rushed through the front door.

The long hallway was dark and empty, smelling of mildew. The evenly spaced doors along the corridor had windows of milky glass, and ghostlike figures moved behind them, whispering in small, dull voices. I went from door to door, reading the nameplates, but the man I was looking for was not on the first floor. It was almost a relief.

The second floor wasn't much better, except a dirty skylight in the ceiling cast a shaft of light along the corridor and made the place seem a little more cheerful. Another
ENGLISH CONVERSATION SCHOOL
sign was posted on the wall at the top of the staircase, with an arrow pointing to the far end of the hallway. I followed the arrow, and went past the school until there was only one door left. Something small and white glowed on the door, right below the frosted glass. It was an ordinary calling card, pinned there with a thumbtack.

Noro Shinpei, read the four characters. At first glance the name looked like any other, but when it was read aloud it was nonsense. Noro, the surname, means slow, and Shinpei is an army private. Slow Army Private. It was obviously a pen name, but it looked very official and dignified on a printed card. I looked at it again and touched the crisp card to see if it was real. My heart began to beat fast, then I laughed silently. Not because of the comical name, but because I'd finally found the man I'd come to meet.

Feeling weak in my knees, I tapped twice on the glass.

"Enter," said a man's voice. It was more like an order than an invitation. I cracked open the door and peeked inside. Two figures were seated at a long desk, peering up at me with curiosity.

"A-are you Master Noro?"

"You've found him. Come in and close the door before you catch TB."

Quickly I closed the door and looked around the room. Books and magazines and pieces of paper were scattered everywhere. The desk was cluttered with tins of cigarettes, glass ashtrays brimming with butts, pens and nibs and pencils, brushes of all sizes, and more inkpots than anybody could use in a lifetime.

"The squalor impresses you." Noro Shinpei smiled. His two front teeth were crowned with gold.

"No, sir. I mean it looks fine, sir," I said with a shaky voice.

"We had a visit from the local authorities this morning. The police, you know," he said and laughed. "Well, pull up a chair and sit. Put the books on the floor, anywhere. Hand me a cigarette, Tokida," he told the youth sitting next to him. I put the pile of books on the floor and sat down.

Noro Shinpei was in his late thirties. His long hair looked as if it was always combed with fingers, and he wore a long, cotton-filled winter kimono. Not many men wore kimonos anymore and he looked old-fashioned, sitting there with his hands inside the long sleeves, samurai-style. There was something about Noro Shinpei that reminded me of an old-time
ronin.
I say old-time because in the old days a
ronin
was a samurai without a master. A samurai was a warrior, an expert swordsman who dedicated his life to serving a master. Today a
ronin
is someone without a job.

Tokida looked three or four years older than me. His hair was cropped close to the skull, and his sharp face was full of pimples. He wore a pair of round steel-rimmed glasses, and his shirt was crinkled as if he'd slept in it. He stared at me suspiciously and lit a cigarette. I was impressed.

"And your name?" asked Noro Shinpei.

"Sei, sir."

"That's an unusual name. How do you write that?"

I wrote the two characters on a piece of paper.

"Kiyoi." He misread my name.

"It's Sei, sir." I corrected him.

"And what can I do for you?"

"I want to be a cartoonist, sir."

"I see...."

A long pause.

"And you want to be my pupil, is that it?"

"Yes, sir."

Tokida blew a big smoke ring out of his puckered mouth. My ears felt hot and the shirt collar tightened around my neck.

"How old are you, Kiyoi?"

"Thirteen, sir. I'll be fourteen in August."

"How tall are you?" He looked me up and down in disbelief.

"A hundred and seventy-three meters, sir."

"Centimeters, you mean."

"Yes, sir."

"Remarkable. A giraffe-boy, the chosen one," he said. He was being polite, punning on giraffe-child which also means a wonder child. Telephone pole was what they called me at school.

"Where do you go to school?"

"Aoyama Middle School, sir."

"A very good school. Is this spring vacation?"

"Yes, sir, two weeks."

"Where do you live?"

"Shibuya, sir."

"Near your school. Were you born in Tokyo, then?"

"Yokohama, sir."

"Do your parents know you came to see me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you tell them why?"

"Yes, they don't mind, sir."

"You're quite sure about that? Even if you are a genius, you're a minor and I have to respect your parents' wishes. What is your father's occupation?"

"He's a merchant, sir."

"Now that's a sly answer. He could be anything from a street peddler to a department store tycoon. I get the feeling you're the oldest son."

"Yes, sir."

"Where is your sense of filial duty?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"What does your father feel about his heir wanting to become a cartoonist?"

"He doesn't mind, sir, he really doesn't. He only wants me to stay in school. He says I'm going to change my mind when I grow older," I said desperately.

"And do you think you'll change your mind?"

"No, sir," I admitted.

"Of course not. At least that's what you think now. What about your mother?"

"She doesn't mind either, sir, as long as I do well in school."

"You're blessed with a wise mother. Do you know what a good policeman is?"

"No, sir."

"He's a man who thinks everyone is a criminal. Consider your neighbor to be a thief. Do you know that saying?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know what a bad policeman is?"

"No, sir."

"A man who regards all artists as criminals," he said, drawing long on a fresh cigarette. "So tell me, why do you want to be a cartoonist?"

The question surprised me. Somehow I didn't expect such a question from a famous cartoonist.

"I'm not sure, sir, but I've always drawn. I'm not good at anything else. I'd rather draw cartoons than anything, sir."

"Drawing before dumplings." He rephrased an old saying. "Tell me, if your father were to forbid you to take up cartooning, what would you do?"

"I would do it anyway, sir."

"And if I don't take you on, what will you do?"

"I don't know.... I'll do it on my own, sir," I said defiantly, though I suddenly felt tired and hopeless.

"I like your spirit," he said and began to laugh. His laughter took me aback.

"So what have you been drawing?"

"I've been copying mostly, sir. I've copied a lot from your strips."

"Draw something for me then," he said, handing me a drawing pad. "Let's say a horse. Yes, draw a horse, and don't try to imitate my style—or anybody else's for that matter. I want you to draw it in your own way. Tokida and I will go about our business, so relax and take your time."

I didn't move. I couldn't. My knees would have buckled under me if I tried to stand up. I picked up a pencil and licked the lead. I wished Tokida would leave the room, but he showed no sign of getting up. He's probably enjoying the scene, I thought, waiting for me to make a fool of myself. What if my hand shakes, I thought suddenly. Then I heard the theater speaker for the first time since I'd been in the room. The noise was faint, but the mumbling dialogue and the background music comforted me.

The first thing I drew was an ear, the side view of it, then I drew another ear, slightly overlapping the first. Then the slanting line of the forehead, a little bump over the eye, and the dipping "dish nose" of an Arabian horse. I heard the soft lead of the pencil sliding over the paper. My hand didn't shake, and I wasn't afraid anymore.

Soon a side view of a horse appeared on the page. I could have drawn the horse from some other angle but didn't think of it. I was happy with the way the horse was coming out. The snout was about the right length, the legs had all the joints, the tail turned out a little too bushy, and the eye was a bit like a human eye, but it was a horse, all right, and not a bad one. I shaded the animal here and there and handed the drawing to the great cartoonist.

He looked at it through thick coiling cigarette smoke, squinting his eyes. He had a very large nose for a Japanese, pitted with pores,
and his jowl was blue though it was freshly shaven. Maybe he's part Ainu, I thought, one of those people who lived in Japan long before the Chinese and the Koreans came to claim the land for themselves.

Tokida craned his neck to peek at my drawing but the cartoonist closed the sketchbook.

"The horse was an excuse," he said. "I wanted to see how you draw. Most boys your age draw like this," he said, drawing a straight line with many jerky strokes. "You seem to have survived your art teachers."

I thought he was paying me a compliment, but wasn't sure, so I said nothing.

"So you want to devote your life to the serious business of cartooning," he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"What can I do to dissuade you?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Then I have no choice but to take you on."

"You mean I can be your pupil, sir?"

"If that is what you want."

Speechless, I nodded my head like an imbecile.