Atelier House.
Since he called it that, I ended up lured by the image of the word, picturing some two-story wooden housing complex, but when I arrived at the designated address, what stood there—what towered there was a high-rise tower I had to look up to see.
What's so 'house' about it? I wanted to say.
This building was more suited to fanciful western words such as Maison or Chatelet, and for some reason, rather than a joke, that naming just sounded in bad taste.
"Ooh, good of you to come, Mamoru. Over here, over here. What are you dazing out for?"
As I looked up at this complex complex in timid bewilderment, a self-locking automatic door opened, and old Wakui emerged from within—it did seem I hadn't mistaken his address.
Of course, the old man who exited the complete contemporary western-styled construction wore a monk's working clothes, and that was in itself another mismatch—a bandana on his head, no, he had wrapped around a hand towel; that form truly was one of a workman of old.
When he came to the museum in a hakama, that was apparently his formal dress—yet his casual clothes or perhaps work clothes, these monk garments did suit the old man exceptionally well. If a painting's frame could be likened to its clothing, then to old Wakui, that look was the most appropriate frame… thinking over the details, it may seem obvious, but he gave off a far more favorable impression than when I met him at the museum.
He had a mind of rage back then, and now as he welcomed me, his carefree smile was such a sociable one, I almost carelessly forgot it was thanks to him that I was driven into unemployment. I had to take care that, led along by the mood and led along by emotion, I didn't thoughtlessly acquiesce to his job offer… I focused my mind,
"Is this your workplace?"
I asked the old man.
"Yeah, that's right. A beau, ain't it?"
"Yes… a masterpiece. But Wakui-san, telling me to protect it, no matter how you slice it, it's too much for me…"
"No worries, no worries. It isn't like I'm asking you to guard this entire mansion."
The old man said, before forcefully shoving me into the building's entrance—the autolocking automatic door came undone with a no-touch card key. On brief inspection, there was a dome-shaped surveillance camera in a corner of the ceiling, keeping watch of people coming and going—just from what I could see, this didn't look like a complex with lax security, but… or so, as a habit from my security guard days, I carried out checks as I arrived at the elevator hall.
When Old Wakui pressed the button, the elevator immediately arrived—what's this? The point that caught my attention was that he had pressed the down button.
"My atelier's in the basement."
While I doubted he sensed my question, Old Wakui said it anyways and boarded the box. I followed behind. The elevator's insides were expansive enough for me to wonder if it was a service elevator—if they were packed in tightly it looked like it could board more than twenty people. Old Wakui pressed the B1 button.
From outside, the towering apartment complex looked to have too many floors to count, but now I was sealed away in this box, from the number of buttons lined vertically, the story was clear—thirty-two floors plus one basement.
Once again, the building went against the name Atelier House, I thought. No, when you got down to it, at present, the only contrary portion was the single syllable 'house', and I wasn't yet at a stage where I could say anything about the 'atelier'.
The elevator came to a complete stop. Once we stepped down and opened the door beyond it, what lay in wait was truly an 'Atelier'.
A construction site as if the complex I saw from outside was a lie expanded before my eyes—across a full wall of the extensively vast entrance parlor, various tools and materials were narrowly packed and lined.
On the steel shelves lining the wall were various documents, binders. Two large work desks in the center of the room, on top of them the paint supplies to draft, and all manner of stationaries… bar and bench, rasps in shapes I'd never seen before, and vice… if I had to say, it had the air of an art room from my student days, but I had to guess the tools assembled were of a standard several tens of times higher.
The strongest impression was left by the giant fretsaw stationed directly to the right of the entrance—while it may be a tool to but wood, it held a strange intensity they could only leave me to imagine it would split metal right in two.
A tried and true atelier. The word fit this place nicely—that being the case, if I had seen this room not knowing Old Wakui's occupation, I doubt I would have any idea what sort of thing was made in this room. Even upon looking at the numerous frames casually littered around the room.
"… Is this your workplace?"
"Yeah, that's right. Amazing, right? Normally, this isn't somewhere a complete amateur like you should be allowed to enter, you know?"
Old Wakui said in high spirits.
Being called an amateur didn't really irritate me—I was definitely an amateur, and even I had to question whether it was alright for me to enter such a true workspace of a craftsman. It may be an exaggeration to call it holy ground. But this definitely wasn't the place for someone to just waltz into even if they had been invited—I was one-sidedly overwhelmed, and yet here I was, somewhere in my heart thinking, 'the place is all jumbled up and scattered, it's a right mess. It looks like it would be more efficient if it was put in order'. I knew it was boorish and profane—the point being, I lacked the capacity to accept this atelier as it was.
The old man, on the other hand, didn't seem to intend to take my inner conflict into consideration,
"Here, sit."
He recommended me a chair—no, not a chair, a weathered wooden box of which I couldn't really tell what it was used for. Taking my build and weight into consideration, I wondered if it was cave in the moment I sat on it, but that was a needless worry—the box was apparently sturdier than it looked. Of all else, after Old Wakui himself lowered his hips down onto a box much the same, I couldn't quite complain.
His offer to give me tea wasn't just social courtesy, and as truth would have it, he brought out two teacups form the backroom I assumed to be Old Wakui's living quarters and placed them on a work desk. The liquid inside of them was pitch black, it seemed to be coffee—recalling Kyouko-san who enjoyed her share of coffee, I held it in my mouth with a, "thanks for the treat."
While this was a practical room that could be called a land of dreams, it had some sort of otherworldly element to it, or perhaps I should say, struck by its atmosphere, my consciousness had grown hazy, and I wanted to stabilize myself through caffeine intake.
After drinking that hot coffee and cooling down a bit, I grew curious about something realistically.
"… They don't get mad at you for overhauling the apartment's basement like this? You've properly received permission from the owner, I'd assume?"
"The owner is me."
The old man answered simply.
"The so-called landlord, that's me."
That response put me at a loss for words, but thinking back, that would explain the service-sized elevator. Without at least that much capacity, he wouldn't be able to load in larger works—but that being the case, from a renter's position, the inside of the room was one thing, but he wouldn't be able to modify the shared space of the elevator.
Unless he was involved from the planning stage… but moreover, was it really possible for a single old man to hold ownership over this multistory complex? Normally, wouldn't an apartment on this scale be managed by a real-estate company…
No, still, from what I'd found out, the earnings of a first-rate framer were apparently astronomical—while he might not be able to raise the value of every painting a hundred times over, with an alchemistic skill to produce value from nothing, would he be able to erect a building on this scale… in that case, Atelier House was a name given by him—it's good I didn't say anything unnecessary.
Whatever the case, as I was unable to give a decent reaction to a world so different from my own,
"Well, you can call me a landlord, but I've got no rental income."
Old Wakui added on.
"No rent income…? What do you mean?"
I was under the assumption that this old man did apartment management, a job considerably distanced from the image of a framer, as one of those so-called tax avoidance side jobs, but…
"This is something of a hobby… I'll explain that one as it comes."
Old Wakui said something evasive. And,
"What I want you to guard is this basement room."
He entered the main issue. Right, I wasn't here to observe the worksite of a frame designer—while I wasn't wearing a suit, if I had to say, I had come for an interview.
"As I told you over the phone, I am about to take on my largest job as a framer… during that time, I want you to make sure there is nothing to get in my way."
"What sort of things… would get in your way?"
"Mn?"
"No, I mean specifically, I was just wondering what sort of threats we might be dealing with… for example, the danger of a theft in the middle of work?"
I tried asking. From the time I entered to the time I reached the room, I thought the security was in order, for argument’s sake. If he wanted anything more, I was sure there had to be some sort of concrete reason
"Or perhaps, do you have someone in mind who would get in the way of you making your life's work… a threatening letter or something?"
"A threat letter? Hahaha, what's with that—you've got a wild imagination. Hey, you might actually be cut out to be a painter yet."
He ended up telling me teasingly—the threat letter may have been my imagination going so far, but a name as big as Old Wakui— a lord of a landlord—about to make what would be the largest (and final) work of his life, while it didn't hit home with a non-specialist like me, naturally, that should be a considerable affair in the industry.
There should be those that lose out, and those who gain from it—then there was no guarantee there hadn't been any suspicious movements…
"This is just a precaution… I simply strive for perfection. It isn't that I have any ideas."
Old Wakui said. I couldn't measure out his sincerity. I couldn't determine whether he was telling the truth or not. I'm not saying I wanted to doubt Wakui. I mean, honestly, he didn't look like the most honest old man, but 'the client tells lies' isn't just an ironclad of the detective industry.
Those who seek out security should have enough reason to do so—of course, the reason of striving for perfection could be reason enough.
"In regards to your wages and term of employment, it's as we've discussed… I shall pay double what you earned while working at that museum. Extraordinary for a part-time job. Not a bad deal, eh?"
"Wai, wait a second."
"What. Does double not cut it?"
Whatever the case, I restrained the old man's impatient attempts to press forward—it would be quite troublesome if the matter was settled without any plan.
"Then three times? You're a greedy one. If you're noisy about money too young, you'll never grow into an adult, whelp."
"No, I'm not criticizing the money…"
When he was pretty much smacking my face with money, I was surprised he had it in him to lecture me. Even so, three times is…
But if he managed an apartment complex on this level, perhaps he did just have that high of an income.
"I told you I have no rental income. This Atelier House is my hobby… no, half a hobby, half service-spirit perhaps."
"Service spirit?"
What's that supposed to mean? A term inappropriate of this old man had come out, but—does he mean to say he's managing this place as volunteer work?
"You're lending rooms to people without anywhere to live free of charge… is that what you mean?"
If I considered it a temporary refuge or shelter; still, this tower complex did seem just a tad too luxurious for that—of course, I wouldn't say luxury is a bad thing, but that would prove somewhat inefficient for volunteer work. If the grade of the institution was regulated, a far greater number of people could be helped—granted, you could also say looking at volunteer work through efficiency's perspective was outrageous, and you'd be right. No matter, it seemed I had made some fundamental misunderstanding, and, "Hahaha," the old man sent my incomprehension off with a laugh.
"Do I look like such an admirable person?"
"Not in the slig… whether you look it or not, in that case, what do you mean by service spirit?"
"The occupation of a framer cannot come to be without the painter."
Old Wakui suddenly spouted what was in itself a laudable preface, and I stood at the ready for what was to come- while I thought that wouldn't make for any answer to my question, the way he spoke gave me no space to weigh in.
"At my age, I've finally been lifted up at first-rate, but back when I started out, you can't imagine the troubles I went through… though a young'un might not be interested in an elder's hardships."
With a quick glance, Wakui peeked at my reaction—rather than peeked, I got the feeling he was blatantly probing it out. What was the proper response in this scenario? I didn't know if it was right, but whatever the case, I went with, "Oh no, I'd love to hear it"
It kinda felt like I was being dragged into a bog—or perhaps an antlion pit.
"I came to be like this- choosing work at my own discretion- only through the existence of the artist. That's why, around ten years ago, was it? When I got a look at the life I had left, I got an idea in my head to pay it back to them—however, I'd be paying back their future."
"Their future…"
"Artist is yet another occupation that finds it difficult to stand and feed one's self on one's own, after all. I've witnessed many talented youngsters without savings distancing themselves from the path—talents unable to bloom are a tragedy, and having talents yet not using them is a condemnable sin."
His words were strong—and harsh.
More so, in the current times, I think the way of looking at talent's shifted towards the ability to make a living without exerting yourself to your best. Come to think of it, I had heard another harsh opinion in regards to talent—where did I hear it again? I tried to recall but, "therefore," the old man's words interrupted.
"To those still developing young painters unable to make a living, I decided I would rent out an atelier and living space free of charge—and what I built was this Atelier House."
"Oh… then,"
I looked up. I wasn't looking at the ceiling, but seeing through to what was beyond it—the thirty-two story high-rise apartment. Then don't tell me the denizens holding a residence in this tower, each and every one of them—
"Yeah, that's right. The tenants are all painters—to be more precise, the eggs of painters."
"Eggs of… painters."
I see, then in that case, while luxury still wouldn't be a necessity, a certain extent of vastness might prove indispensable—since it wasn't just living space, but atelier space as well.
Would this be something different than taking on a disciple? Of course, for old Wakui whose livelihood lay in frame making, he may have a view of art incomparable to a layman's, but it wasn't as if he painted pictures himself—then was he something of a patron? I get the feeling his scale as a patron was too large, but…
"That's not true at all. Generally speaking, even if their business is unrelated, a major corporation will sponsor a sports athlete—it's not much different."
The old man said, but taking that the other way, that would make Old Wakui an individual rivaling a major corporation. That in mind, I was facing such an outrageous individual, it made me want to correct my posture—but it wasn't charitable work, and major corporations didn't really support athletes out of a volunteer spirit. There was a meaning in raising a star player to serve as an advertising billboard; they supported them as a sound investment… then was that what Old Wakui's apartment management meant as well?
"Hm. I can't say it's not an investment—among the painters who've left this Atelier House are some performing on the front lines. Those who I've personally prepared frames for as well."
"Is that so…"
I tried nodding, but I got the feeling it wasn't adding up as an investment. Rearing an artist couldn't be too smooth of an enterprise, and growing one into an ideal form like that should actually be a rare case.
But, well, in this case, perhaps not making a profit was better—as a framer, providing such selfless investments towards artists with a future would improve his image considerably.
I'm sure it would lead to his next job opportunity.
… honestly, the reason I couldn't obediently accept it as volunteer spirit had to be because I witnessed the scene of him losing to anger and smashing a painting—I didn't think his gratitude to the artist was a complete lie, but I couldn't help but think about the other components.
Even subtracting that, I still ended up thinking that, as a hobby, lending out a complex on this scale for free was overdoing it from a common-sense standpoint.
Of course, if hypothetically, his strategy was to improve his perverse and stubborn image, that wouldn't make it bad. The train of thought that a volunteer must always be working under pure goodwill is narrow-minded and disastrous.
"Mn? What's wrong, Mamoru. Do you have something to say?"
"Not in particular… then if I said I wanted to live here and strive to be an artist, would you let me?"
I couldn't just ask him to his face if he was doing it to manipulate his own public image, so I tried saying something to change the topic—but while it didn't incur his wrath and he didn't yell at me, in a harsh tone,
"If you're being serious, I would let you test it out—if you have a spirit strong enough to line up with the residents here."
He told me.
His intensity caused me to hurriedly shake my head.
It wasn't that I didn't want to anger him, I reflected that my statement was far too carefree—thinking of the weight of responsibility shouldered by the tenants living in such a complex free of charge, it couldn't just be simple support.
And there had to be something like an examination… this wasn't the sort of loose place where all applicants were accepted, it seems. If talent wasn't just an ideal, then this Atelier House couldn't be an ideal either.
"Is everyone who lives here a painter without exception? Or as long as they yearn for the arts, do you not care if they're a sculptor or potter?"
"They're all painters, not a single exception. There are some who sculpt statues to paint pictures of them, but their main field is painting."
Which means there wasn't the freedom of an arts college. While I was kinda getting around to thinking of it as a private school supervised by Old Wakui, as long as he didn't take up the brush himself, I had to see it differently— but could I really conclude Old Wakui didn't paint at all? There were paint tools and colors in this basement room…
"If I'll be protecting this apartment, does that also mean I'll be protecting its residents, those eggs of painters?"
"Mn? Aah, no, my request to you is no more than protecting this basement room."
As if only now recalling he hadn't called me here to show off Atelier House, Old Wakui returned to the conditions of my employment.
"Nine to six every day, you just have to stand in this room—I don't mind if you take Sundays off. I'm getting on in years, it'll be hard for me to work any more than that."
So nine hours of labor six days a week.
Considering the time I worked in the museum, it was becoming a bit of, no a considerably high-intensity job, but it wasn't to the level of unreasonable, and if the wages were doubled from that time, you could also call them proper employment conditions.
"Lunch and travel expenses provided separately… naturally, no disclosure of the job I'm about to accomplish. I don't want the world to know I'm undertaking what will become the culmination of my life. You will be placed under a duty of confidentiality. Think of that as being included in your wages."
"Confidentiality…"
The word made me recall Kyouko-san—the forgetful detective. Not wanting it known wasn't particularly to make it a surprise at completion, if a frame making expert on Old Wakui's level returned, that alone would cause a huge ruckus top to bottom.
If he was restrained, that might become a hindrance to the advancement of his work—his hiring of me included, one might call him oversensitive, but to the man in question, perhaps it was simply the natural level of vigilance.
"So how about it? I don't think I'm being unreasonable. Forget the entire mansion, for just a single basement room, you should be able to protect it alone."
"Let's see…"
Scale-wise, sure enough, I could conclude it wasn't a problem—but as someone who had already failed to protect a piece of art (from none other than Old Wakui), I couldn't adopt the decision so lightly. If I carelessly took it, it would be no joke if I couldn't protect it once more—that was something that should never be allowed to happen a second time.
At that moment, there was something I suddenly noticed.
While it may be his culmination and his final work, as long as it entailed making a frame, it could not come to form on its own—yet that painting didn't seem to be in this Atelier.
Just what sort of painting was Old Wakui going to furnish with his greatest work? If it was a painting of such an extent that a frame maker of his renown would swing his arms with all his might, naturally, it couldn't be anything half-baked, but—
"What sort of painting are you making a frame for? You said I wouldn't be guarding a painting, but in the time until the frame is completed, I do think that painting will be included among the targets I have to protect."
"The painting isn't here yet."
"Not here yet? Yes, I can see it doesn't seem to have been brought in yet… but when you get down to making the frame, it will be brought down to this basement room, won't it?"
"Not that, I mean it doesn't exist in this world yet—still in the process of being painted. Not in this underground, on an upper floor."
"An upper floor…?"
Which means one of the painters' eggs he supported was making it?
He did say that among the people who left this complex were some he provided frames for, but—while they still lived here, their talents were already discerned; there was an extraordinary painter from the egg phase?
His face got around the museum, he should have any choice of paintings to make a frame for, yet he took it upon himself to appoint an as-of-yet unknown painter, so they must be quite a talent.
"Then does that mean you'll be waiting until the painting is complete before you get to work?"
"Yes of course, but it's not like I have too much time remaining. There are some preparations I must carry in advance—the spadework so to say."
"Which means you'll be working concurrently. In that case, it kinda feels like a joint project. Sounds difficult…"
"If you look at it as a joint project, it might actually be easier. I mean, I get to see it being painted with these very eyes—I get to know just how the creator painted it. To a frame maker, this is valuable material."
He had a point. If the object was in an incomplete form, that the outside border couldn't be made was just my thoughts as an amateur, and if he could see it mature from its incomplete, rough unripened form from the very first step, that might increase the perfection of the frame he ends up with.
"So personally, as fast as possible—tomorrow even, I want to get to work. I've already ordered the materials, all that's left is your response. If you're unsatisfied with your terms, I'm willing to negotiate to an extent—say what's on your mind."
It seemed we were already at a point where I had to decide, so I thought.
Well, from what I had heard, in the end, whatever institution this Atelier House may be was irrelevant to the job I'd been given—what I had to consider was whether or not I as an individual could protect this work side. Judging by the conversation, it was hard to think there was any definite threat—this was just the caution of an old man, an investment so Old Wakui could concentrate on his work, and my actual job would probably entail gazing at him making a frame over the course of each day.
Following the logic that the frame wasn't a complete piece on its own, there shouldn't be anyone trying to steal it yet—but I couldn't help but remain anxious.
That was of course because I had allowed a large failure once before, but before that, it wasn't as if my experience as a security guard was too long; I was more on the shallow end. Even in a job of simply 'gazing' at this old man's 'final job', I wasn't confident I would be able to accomplish it, or rather my anxieties were—in that case, I just had to refuse, but things weren't so simple.
I really shouldn't have come here.
At the point I was offered a job with a duty of confidentiality, you could say I was already amply involved—even if I turned him down, now that my contact information had been leaked by the museum, the fact that some request was made to me would surely get around.
In that case, without Old Wakui's patronage, it was unavoidable that the museum I once guarded would probe into the matter—when my employment was as of yet undecided, I didn't want to be wrapped into something so troubling.
Just taking the plunge was a means around that—not that I thought it was alright to decide my next half-year over such 'resignation'. The old man told me to think of it as a half-year part-time job at most, but looking at it the other way, that meant my loss of employment in half a year was guaranteed, and the job searching I had to do would be half a year behind—this wasn't just a matter of half a year, whether I shook my head up and down or left and right would swing my life.
Life's turning point.
In the end, would I slip up here and take a tumble— If I were to simply strip away all those calculated conflicts and weight it on pure curiosity and interest, it did intrigue me.
Just what sort of 'job' would bring a close to the life of a single human—I had only just found employment and gotten laid off halfway, it was something I had yet to see, and no matter how I worked in times to come, I couldn't think I would be blessed with too many opportunities to witness it.
Perhaps these were imprudent feelings.
It wasn't much different from a child saying they wanted to see the moment someone died. Perhaps they were a whim I should restrain, but— an investigator who had always probed out that single 'path', my desire to witness the instant they stopped in their tracks was uncontainable.
The opportunity had come to suddenly; I couldn't decide whether or not to let it slip by.
… so suddenly? Come to think of it, I neglected to confirm that portion.
"Wakui-san. Could you tell me why you picked me?"
"Mn? I just couldn't think of anyone else I could entrust it to. When I heard you lost your position, I thought it worked out just fine."
"But to the contrary, you wouldn't normally think to hire a security guard who got fired to guard a precious work. If you were using our exchange back then as a criterion—"
When I saw through that painting as the 'earth' and appraised the smashed picture at zero yen, those couldn't serve as criteria. The former was second-hand, the latter was conjecture. Being evaluated for it would be troubling, honestly speaking—hypothetically, well, let's say luck is a form of strength, but to be blunt, you could also say that 'aesthetic sense' has no relation to a guard's abilities.
"Mn? Exchange? Did we discuss anything?"
"Eh?"
"Back then, the blood rushed to my head, so I don't remember whatever conversation I had with you."
"B-but, in that case, even more so."
"I said it, did I not? No matter what it is, I'll see with it my own eyes … that's all there is to it."
Old Wakui said sounding irritated—but to me, that was the most important point.
"Unless you tell me why you can trust me, I won't be able to work," I hung on.
"To not even know what you're being appraised for, you're a pitiful one. Even the painters' eggs living in this Atelier House, they all each have an understanding of their own worth."
"Hmm…"
"It's because it's my fault you were fired."
Old Wakui said. Then in the end, was he atoning? No, there's no way with that laudable personality of his—as I quietly waited for his words to continue, reluctantly, as if not wanting to go out of his way to say it,
"It's because, while unreasonable laid off because of me, you accepted it."
He tried to make it easier to understand.
"… Does that mean you thought I was biddable?"
Sure enough, from the hiring side, a laborer who didn't complain and just left when they were fired was a thankful thing to have—but if I was being hired under reasons such as 'easy to discharge' and 'will fold to irrational orders,' I'd much rather not.
"Wrong."
But old Wakuirefuted my question.
"I don't know how it really is. But I determined the reason you went with your firing to be because you 'accepted it'—to you, that discharge was not unreasonable at all. I thought you had punished yourself for not protecting the painting you were charged with. That is the sort of person I can trust."
Everyone fails, but it is in how they face that failure that a human shows their worth—Old Wakui declared so grandiosely I could no longer grasp the truth of the statement.
I couldn't react.
By which I mean, I kinda felt like I'd been seen through—perhaps he really did evaluate me, but at the same time, it was the same as saying I was an open book.
In the first place, that was again hard to label as my own achievement—it wasn't as if I had accepted being cornered into unemployment so easily.
Before I accepted it, I needed someone's help.
I could only call it shrouded in mystery, I didn't know what was going on; it was unreasonable and irrational, and it was precisely because a great detective pulled me out from the bottom of the bog—that I got to face my own failure.
However, if I said that here, it would only sound like an excuse—I now know what connected where, but it did seem I still had to give an answer here and now.
No matter how I might regret it later—either choice would be shadowed by regret, which in that case, might mean what I was really choosing was what regret I wanted.
With this decision here, just what sort of regret would I be satisfied with—
"… You said I could negotiate my employment terms, did you?"
"Yeah. Got something in mind? I'll swallow down most conditions."
"The scope of my guard duty aside, realistically speaking, I think it'll be difficult for me to guard this basement room alone over the space of half a year. There will definitely be things I fail to see, and there's no guarantee my health will never take a turn. At the very least, I want you to hire one more person and set up a shift."
It seemed my request was unexpected, and the old man shut his mouth—before he said anything, I pressed for an answer.
"If you say you can triple my salary, then you're better off using that amount to increase the number of people… if you swallow down that condition, I'll happily work for you."
Looking at it the other way, if that didn't work, I planned to decline—that point was the common ground.
"You've put out quite a difficult one."
He said, a little time passed. He wasn't saying it as a negotiation tactic, he really did make a difficult face.
"… If you're striving for perfection, I do think you're better off the more people you have."
"The problem's not so simple—I said I'm imposing confidentiality. Unless I know I can trust them, it's out of the question—and I don't have anyone in mind. I told you, I don't have any other candidates."
"I do have an idea. Are you taking recommendations?"
"Mn? Some connection from the company you worked at? I told you that too, I can't trust organizations."
"It's alright. The one I want to introduce isn't an organization but an individual."
"An individual… oh?"
Doubtfully, old Wakina looked over me scrutinizingly. While losing mentally to his dubious eyes, "Of course, I guarantee the height of their abilities," I continued. "I think they're far more reliable than myself—if I have their support, I think I can face this guard duties with no qualms whatsoever."
"Hmph. In that case, I can't say I won't consider it… but before their abilities come into question, tell me if they've got a tight lip."
With that as the premise to everything, Wakui sought confirmation—that question was one I could answer with confidence.
"Yes. I guarantee it."
Strictly speaking, her lips weren't tight—she was just prone to forgetting.