I heated the frying pan, sliced garlic thin, and set it in olive oil over low heat. As the oil warmed, the smell of garlic slowly rose. No burning. Just before it turns golden brown, you move only the fragrance into the oil.
Then in go the chicken gizzards. A pinch of salt.
They sizzled.
The garlic's fragrance dissolved into the oil and rose up. It must have reached the living room, because I could feel, with my back to her, Ms. Tono looking my way. Komugi, too, lifted the tip of his nose from his bed in his usual spot and was sniffing the air.
You don't overcook gizzards. Just until the outside is browned and the inside keeps a faint trace of pink. That crunchy bite escapes if you cook them too much. Last, I ground black pepper over them and added just a few drops of soy sauce for fragrance. Scorch it against the hot side of the pan, and a toasty aroma bursts up all at once.
The smell in that instant is the most appetizing of all. Scorched soy sauce, garlic, and the fat of the meat. It rides the steam and spreads softly. That toasty aroma is born when sugar and protein meet at high heat. That may be the theory, but all the person standing in the kitchen is doing is wanting someone to think That looks good. That's all.
I plated them and carried them to the dining table. I set the steaming gizzards in front of Ms. Tono.
Ms. Tono picked up a gizzard with her chopsticks and put it in her mouth.
She chewed.
"...!"
Her eyes went wide.
"...What is this?"
"Gizzards."
"No, I mean, it's supposed to be the same thing as the ones from before."
Ms. Tono put another in her mouth. I could hear the satisfying crunch all the way from where I stood. The fragrance of garlic, the bite of salt, the toasty scorch. Nothing like the cold skewers.
"...It's delicious. Really."
"It'll make the drinks go down easy."
Ms. Tono took a sip of her highball, then smiled softly. But that smile soon vanished.
"...We won, you know. The pitch," Ms. Tono said, staring at the gizzards.
"It comes out next month. Probably pretty big. In stations, on trains, all sorts of places."
"Something to look forward to."
"But my name won't be on it."
Ms. Tono set her skewer gently down on the plate.
"The name that goes on it is the client's. It's advertising. That's just how it is. We're behind the scenes. No matter how big a hit it is, the one the world praises is the company that put out the product. Nobody even thinks about who made it."
"..."
"I know that. I knew it from the start. That's the kind of job it is. But today, at the wrap party, the person on the client's side said, 'Well, well, looks like our sense of style isn't so bad after all.'"
Ms. Tono took a sip of her highball. Her throat moved as she swallowed.
"Once, on a different project, a color scheme I'd put forward got overwritten completely with one comment: 'It feels kind of dated.' No reason. Just a feeling, apparently. And that made me wonder if my sense of things was already out of date. How many more years this sense of mine would hold up."
"..."
"Young people keep coming in. New tools keep coming out, one after another. I feel like I'm always being chased. From behind. Like if I stop, that's the end."
Ms. Tono's fingers squeezed the highball can tight.
"I spent six months, put out dozens of ideas, got shot down completely over and over, and that was the one idea that finally survived. And they call it 'our sense of style.' And I smiled and nodded. I said, 'You really have an eye for it.'"
Her voice went a little hoarse.
"What have I been running for all this time?"
I sat down in the chair across from her. For a while, I didn't say anything.
Then, quietly, I said:
"The people who are watching do see it."
Ms. Tono looked up.
"Whether your name is on something when it comes out, and whether anyone is watching, are two different things. The work that carries no name is really the hardest work of all. And there are people who give that work a real shape and leave it behind. The people who are watching do see people like that."
"...But nobody..."
"I like the things you make, Ms. Tono."
Ms. Tono went still.
"No, I don't mean the ads. Sorry, I've never actually seen your work."
I corrected myself a little.
"Last week, the living room chalkboard. You were the one who redid it, weren't you? The writing for the menu. You changed the chalk colors and drew lines so you could tell at a glance who'd asked for what."
Ms. Tono blinked.
"...That was just doodling."
"When Mahiru saw it, she was so happy it was easier to read. Yume took a picture of it. Nobody asked you to, but your hands just moved on their own to make it easier for people to see. That's your work, isn't it?"
"..."
"I like what you make."
Ms. Tono looked down. Her shoulder-length hair hid her profile. But I could tell her shoulders were trembling slightly.
"...That's really not fair."
Her voice was damp.
Without a word, I opened another can of highball and set it in front of Ms. Tono. I poured the same into my own glass. I wasn't trying to compete. Just drinking next to her, at the same pace. That's all.
Ms. Tono can hold her liquor. She drinks amounts that would have most people slurring their words long ago without her face changing color at all. At company drinking parties, she's probably always the one looking after somebody else right to the end. She's someone who isn't used to leaning on anyone.
So I didn't rush her. I didn't put on a show of getting drunk first, either. I just sat beside her, drinking the same thing, the same amount. I knew from long experience that this was the way of drinking that let a person like her lower her armor most quietly.
After a while, Ms. Tono looked up, wiped the corners of her eyes with her fingers, and smiled.
"Mr. Manager, this dashi... no, the seasoning on these gizzards. This isn't home cooking, is it?"
"Isn't it?"
"The timing of when you added the salt. How you cooked them. It's like, you know, someone who works in a restaurant."
I popped a gizzard into my own mouth.
"I did work in cooking for a little while, a long time ago."
"A little while?"
"Yes, a little while."
"I don't think 'a little while' gets you this taste."
Ms. Tono narrowed her eyes. Maybe it came with her line of work, but she looked closely at what lay behind people's words.
"You were used to trimming the sinew off gizzards. And you didn't hesitate at all about when to add the salt. That's the kind of thing you can't do unless you've been doing it for a good number of years."
"You think so? It's like taking out the trash. When you do it every day, your hands just learn it."
When I said that, Ms. Tono stared at me for a while. She started to say something, but didn't.
Instead, she ate a gizzard, drank some highball, and let slip:
"...Where does all the stuff you do every day end up, I wonder."
I thought about it for a moment, then answered.
"It stays inside you. Nobody can erase that."
Ms. Tono didn't say anything. She just sat with the can cradled in both hands, looking up toward the ceiling for a while. The rims of her eyes were glistening.
Komugi came over to her feet in the dining room and gently rested his chin on Ms. Tono's knee.
Only one piece of gizzard was left on the plate. Even as it cooled, the smell of garlic still drifted between us, along with the last traces of steam. As she gazed at it, something came into Ms. Tono's eyes, something other than tears, a look like she was sizing something up, and I watched it while pretending not to notice.
That a night would come when she would seriously come asking what my "little while" really held, I had no idea yet.