Vol 2 Prologue At Summer’s End

In Kyoto’s Teramachi-Sanjo district stands an antique store named “Kura.” There, you can find a mysterious and unique individual, not yet a Kyoto man but a “Kyoto guy,” nicknamed “Holmes” because of his exceptional eye for observation and appraisal.

“No, Aoi. I’m called ‘Holmes’ because my surname is Yagashira.”

Right, his surname has the character for “Home” in it.

“Wait, you’re still saying that?”

Set in Kyoto, these are the graceful case files of Kiyotaka Yagashira a.k.a. Holmes and me, high school student Aoi Mashiro.

Heading south into the Teramachi-Sanjo shopping district from Oike Street, I arrive at a small antique store. The sign has a single word on it: Kura, meaning “storehouse.” This is the name of the store where I, Aoi Mashiro, work part time.

The store’s interior is a blend of Japanese and Western aesthetics, reminiscent of the Meiji and Taisho eras. The antique sofa and counter bring to mind a Western-style manor’s drawing room. It’s almost like a retro-modern cafe. A smallish chandelier hangs from the modestly high ceiling, and a large grandfather clock rests against a wall. Further inside the store are many rows of shelves adorned with antiques and miscellaneous goods.

The owner’s grandson—Kiyotaka Yagashira, nicknamed “Holmes”—is looking after the store today. He is pale-skinned with a slim build and slightly long front bangs. A handsome young man with refined features.

“Is something the matter, Aoi?” Holmes asked as the grandfather clock gonged, indicating that it was 1:00 p.m. He didn’t look up from his bookkeeping—apparently, his senses were so good that he didn’t have to see me to realize I was staring at him.

“Oh, no. I was just spacing out because I finished cleaning. Is there any other work for me to do?” I answered, flustered. I wasn’t lying. I’d more or less finished cleaning and was inadvertently staring at Holmes’s elegant profile, feather duster in hand.

“Nothing in particular… Shall we start ‘Learning Time,’ then?”

“Y-Yes! I’d love to!” I shouted eagerly.

“This isn’t a bar, Aoi,” Holmes said, smiling cheerfully. “Please come sit at the counter.”

“Okay.” I nodded and excitedly approached the counter. Holmes stood up without making a sound and pulled a chair out for me. “Th-Thank you.” He gave a light bow and then headed towards the back of the store. As usual, each and every one of his movements was elegant and refined. It’s been almost five months since I started working here, and his graceful mannerisms are a constant reminder that I need to be better, too.

“Today, we’ll be looking at this. It’s from my grandfather’s collection,” Holmes said, bringing over a small box. He was wearing his usual white gloves—or not? They were black gloves this time.

“Holmes, did you switch to black gloves?” I asked loudly. I was surprised, because I’d only ever seen him wearing white ones.

“Yes, I have black gloves too. You weren’t aware?” he said nonchalantly. He then sat down across from me and carefully took a tea bowl out of the box. “Now then, it’s learning time,” he said with a grin, holding up his long index finger in front of his mouth. The different glove color was enough to change his aura, and it made my heart beat faster for some reason.

He placed the ceramic tea bowl on the counter between us. “Learning Time” was what Holmes called his lectures about antique art. They differed from his usual spontaneous explanations in that they were formal lessons that he had started when summer vacation began. Since I wasn’t going to have school for a long time, he asked me to come in more often—not because there was a lot of work for me to do, but simply because the store needed someone to keep watch when Holmes or his father were out. The store generally didn’t get many customers, and cleaning and inventory checks were an endless task regardless of how much effort I put in. I often didn’t know what to do with my time, so Holmes decided to make effective use of it by teaching me about antiques.

The piece this time had a conventional bowl shape. It was light brown with a dark brown floral pattern. I hadn’t seen this one before.

“What is this?”

“It’s an old Karatsu tea bowl.”

“Old Karatsu…?”

“It means it was produced during the Momoyama period, in what is now Saga Prefecture. Please take a close look at it first.”

“Okay.” I stared at the tea bowl. It looked simple yet refined. But to be blunt, the flowers painted on it were crude to the point where I couldn’t tell what was going on. “The pattern isn’t particularly artistic,” I blurted out honestly without thinking.

Holmes smiled and nodded. “Yes, that’s part of the aesthetic. It’s said that old Karatsu is the final destination for pottery fans. The characteristic traits of this piece are that it’s made from hard clay and has wrinkles at the unglazed foot. These are called ‘fine wrinkles.’”

“Fine wrinkles…” I nodded and took my notebook out of my pocket to jot down Holmes’s explanations and my own impressions.

“You’re always such an eager student.”

“N-No, it’s just that I’ll probably forget if I don’t write it down. You’re taking the time and effort to teach me, so this is the least I can do as your apprentice, Professor Holmes.” I saluted briskly.

“There’s no need to exaggerate. I still have much to learn myself.” Holmes shrugged with a strained smile. Right, Holmes was the grandson and apprentice of Seiji Yagashira, renowned nationally certified appraiser and owner of this store, and was still undergoing his training.

“Come to think of it, what kind of training do you do to become an appraiser?”

“That’s a difficult question to answer. I suppose it boils down to gaining experience. There’s nothing you can do but interact with as many genuine articles as you can. My grandfather always says that you have to train the mind’s eye through observing authentic antiques,” Holmes said in a serious tone, placing the valuable Karatsu tea bowl back in the box.

Just as I nodded earnestly, the door chime rang.

“W-Welcome!” I hurriedly stood up and bowed. Since it’s so rare for us to get customers, I always panic when it happens.

Holmes on the other hand remained perfectly composed. He smiled and said, “Welcome” as he returned the box to its shelf.

The customer was a middle-aged man wearing a sleek, expensive-looking suit and a gold wristwatch. He was holding something wrapped in cloth. At a glance, he looked wealthy…but something was off. He didn’t have the right air. Maybe he’s an upstart? I wondered. Holmes could instantly figure out all sorts of things about a person just from looking at them, and I got the feeling that spending so much time with him had put me into the habit of making assumptions about people.

“I’ve got something I want appraised. Can you do it?” the man asked, walking towards the counter with a smile.

“Yes, of course. Please have a seat.” Holmes smiled back and gestured towards the sofa in front of the counter.

“Thanks,” the man said, sitting down. “Could you take a look at this?” He unfolded the cloth and held out the box that was inside.

Judging from the size of the box, it might be a tea bowl? I stood a short distance away from the counter, stealing glances at it while dusting off a shelf.

“It would be my pleasure.” Holmes opened the box, still wearing his black gloves. He took out a tea bowl, just as I’d expected. It was a shallow cylinder-type bowl, brownish-yellow with dark green flowers. “Well, I’ll be.” He broke out into a wide grin as though he’d encountered something amusing.

“My ancestors have been doing business in Osaka for generations, and this was in the back of our storehouse. It was part of my grandpa’s collection—called a Kizeto tea bowl, I think? It’s supposed to be real nice, but I’m not interested in this stuff, so.” The man spoke cheerfully and incessantly, leaning in as if thinking that Holmes had taken interest in the bowl.

“Kizeto, you say?” Holmes murmured. He glanced sideways at me without turning his head. That was a signal. His eyes were asking me, What do you think?

He’d already taught me about Kizeto during one of our summer vacation learning sessions. I silently nodded and looked closely at the tea bowl again. The brownish-yellow piece had a matte finish and a rugged sense of weight to it. It did seem historic, and at a glance, it did look like Kizeto ware. However, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something off about it. I had a hunch that it wasn’t real. I couldn’t explain why, but it just didn’t sit well with me.

I shook my head and Holmes nodded with a satisfied look, as if saying I was correct. He then looked back at the man and said flatly, “Unfortunately, this is a counterfeit.” The man’s eyes widened. Holmes continued, “Real Kizeto ware has what is colloquially known as ‘oily skin’—a lustrous texture as if oil had been poured over the clay—as well as a clean feeling. This piece has none of that. Additionally, real pieces are lighter than they appear. This one is too heavy. Furthermore, the coppery-green coloring on real pieces, known as chalcanthite, is supposed to be vivid, but the color here is quite darkened. I can say with certainty that this is a counterfeit piece of Kizeto ware created in bad faith,” Holmes said coldly, holding up the tea bowl.

The man seemed dumbfounded for a moment. Then a crooked smile rose to his lips. “Wh-What would a youngster like you know?” he lashed out angrily. He must not have been able to accept that the treasure he’d brought in thinking it was real had been denounced by such a young appraiser.

“I do know. And if you’ll allow me to say one more thing, you brought this here knowing that it was fake, right?”

“What?!” the man shouted.

I was surprised too. The man didn’t believe that it was real? He knew that it was fake?

“You said you were from Osaka, and from your accent I can presume that you’re from the south side. In that case, why would you bring this tea bowl all the way to Kyoto? There are plenty of appraisers and pawn shops in Osaka, no?” Holmes asked, a smile rising to his lips. His tone of voice was very gentle, but it still packed a punch.

The man seemed stunned for a moment, and just when I thought he’d been overpowered, he bounced back, saying, “I-It was a coincidence. I just happened to be going to Kyoto, so I stopped by here.”

“You just happened to come to Kyoto and you just happened to be carrying a Kizeto tea bowl? That’s far too unnatural. You knew that the esteemed appraiser Seiji Yagashira had a grandson performing appraisals at an antique store in Teramachi-Sanjo as part of his training, right? As proof, you weren’t the slightest bit surprised when I started doing the appraisal. Everyone who comes here is always surprised to see someone as young as me doing it.”

I unconsciously nodded as I listened. It was true. The customers who brought antiques here were always surprised and doubtful when they found out that Holmes would be doing the appraisal despite still being a student. In fact, when I first saw him doing an appraisal, I was shocked for the same reason.

“You purposely targeted this store,” Holmes continued. “Did you think a young apprentice would be easy to fool?” He looked down at the tea bowl again and smirked. “It looks like this tea bowl was taken to a blemisher after it was created.”

“A blemisher?” I asked out loud without thinking.

Holmes opened his mouth to speak without looking away from the tea bowl. “There are people who will add ‘blemishes’ to new tea bowls to give them an aged feel. It’s also called ‘adding years.’ Given a month, even a brand new tea bowl can be aged by around three hundred years. Someone associated with such a professional would be experienced with the counterfeit trade and deceiving inexperienced appraisers,” he spoke as if talking to himself.

The man was taken aback and couldn’t say anything in response. Holmes leaned towards him and pressed further, “You borrowed that suit to pretend to be rich, right? Unfortunately, the size doesn’t fit you, and while the suit is fancy, your shoes are worn out. You happened to get your hands on forgeries and succeeded in selling them for a high price to inexperienced appraisers. Then, when you found out there was a young, inexperienced appraiser in Kyoto’s Teramachi-Sanjo, you decided to trick me too. Am I wrong?” He was still smiling, but in a terrifying way that sent chills down my spine.

“No, um…well,” the man mumbled, sweating profusely. He must’ve been shaken since Holmes had completely blown his cover.

“Such a shame. I may be young, but I am most certainly not inexperienced enough to be fooled by such crass work.” Holmes instantly put on an icy glare, and the man’s face went pale. Whoa, there it is—his angry Kyoto dialect! It’s the advent of the dark Holmes!

Holmes is always calm and kind—the pinnacle of good conduct. When I first met him, I thought he was a perfect, somewhat aloof person who was unlikely to get emotional. But after spending time with him, I learned that that wasn’t the case. He’s surprisingly unwilling to back down. He’s considerate but does what he wants. And I recently found out that he’s extremely scary when he’s angry. When he’s worked up, his polite friendliness disappears and his Kyoto accent comes out, revealing a terrifying side of him. I secretly call that “the dark Holmes.”

The man who’d targeted that pitch-black Holmes grabbed his counterfeit tea bowl and cloth wrapping and fled the store.

After the man disappeared, Holmes whirled around to face me. “Ugh, the nerve. Aoi, sprinkle some salt, please!”

“Right away. Salt, you said?” Sprinkling salt is a purifying ritual practiced in the Shinto religion.

“Yes, salt.”

I went into the back room, picked up some salt, and came back out. “Umm, the only salt we have right now is flavored salt for boiled eggs. Is it okay to use this? Isn’t it kind of a waste?”

Holmes gaped for a moment before chuckling. “You’re right. It would be a waste.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“In that case, shall we boil some eggs?” he said, smiling happily. It looked like he was in a better mood now.

“I’m hungry, so that works for me.”

We took advantage of the lack of customers to make boiled eggs and have a coffee break.

“I feel more relaxed when I’m with you, Aoi,” Holmes said quietly, carefully peeling a boiled egg with his long fingers.

“Huh? How come?”

“Usually, coming into contact with a malicious forgery puts me in a bad mood for the rest of the day. But this time, when I saw you holding the flavored salt, I felt like a pot of boiling water that had its lid taken off so all the steam escaped.”

“What?” I inadvertently laughed. “But is it okay not to report that scammer to the police? There were appraisers that got tricked, right?”

“I know it sounds unsympathetic, but the fault lies with the appraisers who were deceived. He wasn’t scamming ordinary people, after all. However, I will of course report that such a thing happened.”

I see. So even if he purposely brought in a fake antique, it’s the appraiser’s job to spot it. It’s a battle between appraisers and counterfeiters.

“What about ‘reproductions,’ then? Those are imitations too, so could you call them counterfeits?” I asked.

“Reproductions are imitations made in good faith with the approval of the original creator. So, they don’t hide the fact that they’re reproductions, and they’re sold for a different price. The buyer is aware when they’re making their purchase.

“On the other hand, counterfeits are clumps of ill will, created to trick people and steal their money. I cannot accept such bad faith. It’s blasphemy towards the creators and appreciators of fine art.” Holmes scowled as he drank his coffee.

“You’re a sincere person, huh?” I murmured.

Holmes looked surprised. “Sincere? Who, me?”

“Yes.” I nodded firmly. It was clear that he truly hated counterfeits. He had to be a sincere person who couldn’t tolerate lies.

“No, I may despise counterfeits, but I have a twisted personality. At my core, I’m black-hearted.” He looked at me as if he had no idea what I was talking about, and I choked on my coffee. B-Black-hearted? “By the way, Aoi, do you have any plans for summer vacation?”

I looked back up in surprise at the unexpected question. “S-Summer vacation?” Why would he be asking that? Was he going to invite me to go somewhere? “N-No, I don’t have any plans. I can help out at the store as much as you want,” I said rapidly in my bewilderment. Even if he was going to invite me out, it’d definitely be to a museum or art gallery for educational purposes, I thought. Still, I couldn’t help but get excited.

Holmes made a relieved face and placed his hand on his chest. “Good. I’ll be spending the month of August in Europe with the owner.”

“Huh?”

“He handles appraisal requests from foreign art institutions as well as art acquisitions for hotels and whatnot. Every summer, we travel around overseas.”

“I see… You do those kinds of things too, huh?”

“Yes. Please take care of the store with my father during that time. Feel free to do your homework here, and any time you want a break, just let him know.” He sounded apologetic.

I felt all the strength leave my body. “Okay, no problem. Enjoy your trip to Europe.”

“I’m not sure if I’ll be able to enjoy being my grandfather’s errand boy, but I’ll buy you a souvenir.”

“Oh! I’ll look forward to it.” Easy-to-please as I was, my face immediately lit up. I took a bite out of a boiled egg.

“This is your second summer in Kyoto, right? Please enjoy it.”

“Okay. I’m thinking of seeing the Daimonji bonfires this year.”

“It’s called Gozan no Okuribi, Aoi. The five ceremonial mountain bonfires,” Holmes said, waving his index finger.

“Oh right, you’re not supposed to call it that in front of people from Kyoto.” In the Kanto region we know it as the Daimonji bonfires, but the official name is “Gozan no Okuribi.” It’s a festival where giant bonfires in various shapes are lit on five different mountains. The shapes are: the character for “Dai” (meaning “large”), the characters “Myo” and “Ho” (referring to a Buddhist term for wondrous teachings), a boat shape, a torii gate shape, and another “Dai.” Since “Dai” is used twice, one of them is called the “left Dai.”

“Exactly, you mustn’t say that.” He nodded firmly, and I couldn’t help but smile at the behavior I’d come to expect from him.

“I’m sorry. Come to think of it, um…”

“Yes?”

“Are you really black-hearted?” I asked, going back to what he said before.

“Were you not aware, Aoi? ‘Kyoto guys’ are black-hearted,” he said in his Kyoto accent, grinning confidently and placing his hand on his chest.

My eyes widened. The sight pierced straight through my heart, and I couldn’t come up with anything to say. I might have a thing for black-hearted Kyoto guys, I thought to myself, but don’t tell anyone that.

Thus passed another idle summer afternoon.

--- [ End of Chapter ] ---