The Brush That Crossed the Sea
"Master! Please—just a moment, that's all I ask!"
Yanagi stood before Matsuoka's closed door, calling out the master's name with a desperate, aching urgency.
Matsuoka's wife watched him with a troubled face and tried to soothe him.
"Mr. Yanagi… why don't you go home for today and come back another time…"
But this was Yanagi's one golden chance, and he could not let it slip away.
"Master Matsuoka. I've brought you a truly exceptional brush! If—if you find that this brush doesn't suit you at all, I swear I will never set foot in your home again!"
"Mr. Yanagi…"
A moment later—whether out of concern for what people might say, or for some other reason entirely—Matsuoka finally emerged from the room. He turned on Yanagi with a voice as cold as ice.
"I believe I told you never to come back. Have you forgotten what I said?"
Yanagi bowed at a perfect ninety degrees, apologizing once more as he pleaded.
"I am truly sorry for the thoughtless things I said last time. But please, I beg you—just try the brush I've brought, even once. If this brush is not to your liking, I will leave this industry forever."
"This man…"
What finally moved the immovable Matsuoka was his wife.
"Dear… he's asking you this earnestly. At least give it a try."
Even a man as unyielding as Matsuoka could not refuse his wife's request. He let out a long sigh and started walking.
"Hah… fine. But this is the one and only time. Bring the brush and come to the studio."
"Thank you! Thank you, Master!"
It's been years since I put down my brush. What on earth am I doing…
They had pleaded with him as hard as anyone could plead. Even so, he had never imagined he would actually find himself standing in the studio again.
Is there still some lingering attachment in me after all…
A short while later, Yanagi, who had followed him in, carefully held out a brush wrapped in cloth.
"This is it?"
"Yes."
"Where did you get it?"
"Th-that's…"
"If this happens to be a brush by that fellow Saburo of Hokkaido, I won't use it. He makes fine brushes, I'll grant him that—but his and mine are oil and water."
Yanagi hesitated for a beat, then told the truth.
"I-it's… a brush a tourist made at the brush-making workshop in the Kyoto Calligraphy Museum."
Matsuoka, who had been grinding ink, froze solid.
What… what did he just say?
He was so stunned that for a moment no words would come.
Not a brush made by a master artisan. Not even a mass-produced factory brush. A brush a tourist had made at a hands-on workshop.
This was payback—plain and simple. He had spoken a little harshly last time, and now the man was here to humiliate him.
Rage boiled up in Matsuoka's voice as he shoved himself to his feet.
"I see I've completely misjudged you. I said a few hard words last time, so now you come here to mock me like this?"
"M-Master…! It isn't like that. P-please, just take it out and look at it! If you look at it, even you will change your mind!"
"What? I'll change my mind if I look at it? You're telling me to write with a brush some tourist slapped together at a workshop?!"
Furious, Matsuoka hurled the brush he was holding straight to the floor.
The cloth wrapping came loose as it struck, and the brush was laid bare.
And in that instant—
Silence. Sudden, total silence.
The same Matsuoka who had been roaring with fury only a second before crouched down, picked up the brush with surprising care, and turned it over in his hands.
What is this… A tourist made this?
The materials were cheap—cheap among cheap. Synthetic bristles. Bargain wood. Exactly the sort of stuff you'd expect to find at a tourist workshop.
And yet the overall shaping of the brush head, the perfect alignment of every hair at the tip… and more than anything, the handle. He couldn't tell what it had been carved with, but the work was so fine, so precise, that it looked as though it would settle into any hand as if it had always belonged there.
To have made a brush of this caliber from materials this cheap was nothing short of astonishing.
When Matsuoka spoke again, the rage was gone from his voice.
"What is this?"
"As I said a moment ago, it's a brush a Korean tourist made at the brush-making corner in the Calligraphy Museum."
"Are you playing games with me? You're telling me a tourist made a brush of this quality?"
Yanagi, flustered, answered in a rush.
"I know it's hard to believe, but it's the truth. It really is a brush a tourist made and left behind."
……
Nothing in Yanagi's face looked like a lie.
Well. He wouldn't have any reason to invent a story like that…
Matsuoka turned the brush over in his hands once more.
It's a fine brush, no question. In terms of the making alone, it doesn't look far off from Kaishin's work… But the bristles, the handle—neither is the kind of material I prefer.
He set the brush down and spoke to Yanagi.
"I'll grant you it's well made. But I cannot write with this brush."
Yanagi nodded.
"I know. No matter how well it was made, I never imagined you would use a brush of synthetic bristles and cheap wood. Which is why, yesterday, I found the person who made it."
"You did…?"
He would be lying if he said he wasn't interested.
I thought I had put that longing away for good…
He had been sure of it. And then he had touched this brush, and a fire he thought had gone out was trying to catch again.
Matsuoka had begun calligraphy around the age of ten and had spent more than sixty years with nothing else. A man like that did not set down his brush lightly.
After Kaishin died, he had tried brushes by other artisans, one after another. He had even gone looking among commercial products, in case something decent might be hiding there. There was not a brush he hadn't put to paper.
None of them came close to Kaishin's.
With any other brush, he had no confidence he could write a character better than he had with Kaishin's. And so he had broken his brush and walked away.
But a moment ago, looking at this one, a fragile, stubborn little hope had begun to take root somewhere deep in his chest.
Matsuoka turned the brush Yanagi had brought over in his fingers again and asked,
"So. Who made this?"
"Th-that's…"
Yanagi hesitated, the words catching in his throat.
"It's all right. Out with it. You've got me interested now."
Yanagi bowed his head once more.
"Master! Would you come to Korea with me?"
"……Korea?"
"Cut! Great work, everyone!"
PD Kim's call ended the shoot.
The sweet three-night, four-day vacation was over, and I was back on the set of Authentic & Masterpiece for the first time in two weeks.
Today's piece wasn't anything like the last expensive item that had come through.
Ten million won? Somewhere around there, probably.
Joseon-era silver-and-crystal earrings—worth about ten million won, maybe fifteen if the bidding ran hot. Even at a high hammer price, what actually landed in my pocket wouldn't crack a million.
Still, something pricey could always walk in the way it had last time, and the appearance fee itself was decent enough that walking away felt like a waste.
While the staff packed up the equipment, PD Kim Dae-yu came over to me.
"Mr. Kang! Another excellent episode today! Thanks to you, our show's been getting a lot of attention from younger viewers lately."
"Is that so?"
"Absolutely. People have been clipping just the segments you're in and putting them up as Shorts."
His face was full of smiles in a way it hadn't been when I first arrived. The broadcast had been making noise, ratings were up, ads were rolling in—no wonder he was in a good mood.
And thanks to that, my face is being sold from one end of the country to the other…
We talked a little longer, and by then the wrap-up was already done. PD Kim said his goodbyes and headed out.
"I'll see you in two weeks, then, Mr. Kang!"
"Yes. Take care on your way."
Once the staff had all gone, I made myself a cup of coffee and ran back through the rest of the day's work.
"At least today should be a little livable."
It was a day I didn't take appointments, so things were relatively quiet. After the broadcast, so many people had started showing up that I'd had to set specific hours for taking reservations.
I might need to hire someone just to handle intake…
Doing everything myself—from taking requests to quoting prices—meant there was a lot more to keep track of than I'd expected.
I finished the coffee, crumpled the paper cup into the trash, and was about to get back to work when the door suddenly opened.
What? PD Kim?
He'd only just left. Maybe he'd forgotten something.
"PD Kim? Did you forget some—"
The person who came in was not PD Kim Dae-yu.
Who is this?
They were definitely not from the Authentic & Masterpiece crew. One was a middle-aged man; the other, a white-haired old man. The middle-aged one looked worn down to the bone—but the old man, white hair and all, carried a presence that was anything but frail.
"If you're here for a commission, I'm afraid I'm not taking any today. I only accept requests on Wednesday and Friday mornings…"
I was carefully explaining that this was not a commission day when the middle-aged man looked at me and said,
"Is this the workshop run by Mr. Kang?"
"……"
English.
I froze.
I don't speak English…
On Olympus, language had never been necessary. Whatever anyone said, the meaning simply arrived in my head. Which meant my English was exactly as rudimentary now as it had been a hundred years ago—nowhere near enough to hold a conversation.
"Uh… I don't speak English…"
The middle-aged man seemed to catch my clumsy English. He nodded, pulled out his phone, opened a translation app, typed something, and held the screen out to me.
Japan?
I took out my own phone, opened a translation app, and sent my reply.
The moment I confirmed it, the middle-aged man's face lit up. A beat later, he typed another question and held the phone out again.
The brush-making experience…?
"Ah…"
I thought for a second, and then it came back. When I'd gone to the Kyoto Calligraphy Museum with my mother, the last thing we'd done was the brush-making workshop.
I left the brush behind because I figured it would just be extra luggage… Don't tell me they came all the way to Korea because of that?
I nodded, then typed a question of my own.
Yanagi typed again and held the screen toward me.
That was impressive, in more ways than one.
I never would have guessed they'd fly all the way to Korea over a single brush.
Today isn't a commission day, but…
I set aside the work I'd been about to start, cleared it off the shelf, and typed back.
The middle-aged man bowed his head and offered his thanks in clumsy, heavily accented Korean.
"Sank you very much! So… drink two green tea…"