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"...My name is Gadling. You can call me Professor Gadling or Professor Hob, or whatever you like. My office hours are Wednesday afternoons and Friday mornings. If you need me outside of those hours, I'm usually at a cafe called the New Inn..."
During my first lecture, my hand stopped taking notes. I know the New Inn.
It's a place I used to go to with my father. We played in a nearby park, and on the way back, we had lemonade at the New Inn. The memory of my sweaty T-shirt, the smell of mud, and the cold lemonade filling my mouth all came back to me. At that moment, I felt like I was transported back to the park on the weekend, not the university lecture hall.
As school and clubs got busier, I played less at the park, and I stopped going to the New Inn. I see, the New Inn was still there.
I looked up and took a good look at Professor Gadling's face for the first time. How old is he... maybe in his late 30s? I'm not sure what an adult's age is. Was he there when I went to the inn with my father 10 years ago? Would my father remember the professor from his younger days?
I searched my memory, trying to recall the scenery of New Inn. My memory was not very clear. I was short back then, and couldn't see the faces of the adults. All I could remember was the vague atmosphere of the cafe and the picture of lemonade on the wall.
"...Well, let's get started on the lecture. Here's the list of reading materials..."
I heard the professor's voice again, and I was suddenly awakened from my dream. I was in danger of missing the lecture, being dragged back to my memories of being eight years old. I started writing again.
**
"Do you remember New Inn?"
After dinner, I asked my father right away. He put down his beer glass and nervously touched his beard. It was his habit when he was remembering something.
"Oh, we used to go there together a lot. What was it?"
"The professor mentioned it in class today, and it made me nostalgic."
My father narrowed his eyes. This was also a habit he had when he was reminiscing about the past. I have a similar habit, so my mother often teases me.
"Now that I think of it, today was your first day of the new term. That cafe is still there. I miss it."
"It was 10 years ago, so the owner might have changed."
"Yeah, the owner might have changed."
I was curious about the way he said "the owner." He sounded as if he knew something about that cafe. Maybe my doubts were showing on my face, because my father continued.
"...I had a strange experience with that cafe."
"A strange experience?"
"When I was still...15 or 16 years old. Younger than you are now. It was around 1989 or 1990. It's going to be a bit long, but do you want to hear it?"
When I nodded, my father started to tell me the story.
He told me the following story.
***
At that time, I was what they call...a bad kid, but I guess that's to be expected for a 15-year-old kid. I was doing graffiti everywhere with a spray can in hand. But it wasn't anything like Banksy. At most I would deface signs and write a little bit of name on them, it was just cute stuff.
Around that time there was a big construction project going on in town. It was a little way from where the New Inn is now. Apparently they were demolishing the original building and the surrounding area to make way for an apartment complex.
It's a historic building and there was some opposition to the demolition, but that was beside the point. I decided to go at night when there were no people around, and approached the fence of the construction site.
It wasn't because I wanted to draw something. I just found it amusing to see the red lines appearing on the pure white construction fence. Then I heard a voice behind me say, "Hey!"
I panicked. I thought it was the police. But when I turned around, it was someone completely different. It was a man in his 30s or 40s. He was wearing a fashionable jacket at the time and had a cell phone in his hand (you'd be shocked if you saw cell phones back then. They were nothing you could carry around compared to today's). Sorry to say it, but he was just a normal guy.
"Hey, what do you want? Don't bother me."
I was relieved that he wasn't a police officer. So I got carried away and cheekily asked him back.
"No, I wasn't trying to bother you... I was just, you know, interested in that thing you had."
The man pointed to the spray can I was holding. I was a bit taken aback, thinking he was going to scold me. I shook the can and the man nodded and said, "That's it," and then asked me the following.
"They sell that spray in stores, right?"
"They sell it everywhere, but... do you do graffiti too?"
"No, I don't do graffiti. But I had an idea to leave a message."
"Leave a message... to who?"
I was interested in the man in front of me. He was weird for saying "leave a message" instead of scolding a brat like me. To me, spray is for graffiti, so it didn't make sense to me when he said it was used to leave a message.
The man pointed to a building on the other side of the fence.
"Actually, me and my friend... were supposed to meet at this bar. But the other day, 'he' didn't show up, and the bar went out of business."
The man sighed. "So I decided to make a meeting place. I set up a cafe a little ways away. But I was wondering how to tell him where it was... your spray paint gave me an idea. If I leave a message here, surely 'he' will find the cafe and we can meet up."
The man made a gesture of spraying the fence. It was a bit awkward, but I could tell he was trying to draw an arrow. He wanted to tell me the direction of the arrow was in.
"Then why don't you put up a sign?"
I mean, surely that's true. Spray paint graffiti is destined to be erased someday. So putting up a sign would be easier to understand, and it would also advertise the cafe. But perhaps he was thinking the same thing as me, as the man quickly retorted.
"Well, if an apartment building is built, you can't put up a sign. But you can paint on any wall anytime with spray paint."
"Then put an ad in the newspaper, name him."
(Kids today might not understand the idea of paying for an ad in the newspaper to send a message. But it used to be a thing. There was a section for that. Something like "To J. Smith, package received. From J. Jones." Have you seen it in a movie or novel?)
What do you think he said then?
"I don't even know his name, so I can't use an ad in the newspaper." Can you believe it? He's the person you're meeting, and you don't even know his name. I mean, how can you call someone your friend if you don't even know his name?
I didn't say it out loud, but I must have had a look on my face that said, "You're kidding me?" The man gave me a wry smile. I was so astonished that I found myself asking again.
"I'm fine with spray painting, but how long are you going to keep doing that? Until he comes?"
It was a very reasonable question. He just shrugged and said, "Well, I'll come here all the time. I plan on staying here for a while."
I thought he was a patient guy... No, he's not one to give up. Then another question arose.
"Did you come here today because you thought he was coming?"
The man nodded.
"You came instead. But if I had the spray, I wouldn't have to watch here every night. I could just wait at the cafe."
He wasn't joking, he was serious. I thought he was weird, but I taught him the tricks of the spray. I even gave him a half-used spray can.
After seeing that the man had learned to draw the arrow, I decided to go home. He was so serious about drawing the arrow that I felt it was stupid to interrupt him.
I still remember the conversation we had when we parted ways. He told me to "Stop being a bad kid and go home properly" and "you must study at school," so I replied, "Are you a school teacher?" Then he was deep in thought.
"A teacher, huh... I've had a lot of jobs, but I've never thought about being a teacher. Maybe I'll aim to become a teacher once the cafe settles down."
"Hmm... You seem to have changed jobs a lot? From the looks of it, you don't look that old."
"I'm older than I look."
He laughed, waving the spray can around. I went back home and pulled out my textbooks for the first time in a while.
I haven't spoken to the man since.
But... a little while later, I heard rumors that the construction of the apartment building had been halted. Apparently there were financial problems and protests. But the bar never reopened, and the construction site was left half-finished.
I vaguely wondered if that man had something to do with it. Maybe the development was halted just so that he could leave a message. A silly thought, though.
I went back to the bar a few times after the development was halted. I never expected to see the man (because he said he'd wait at his cafe). But I did feel a little bit like if the spray paint had disappeared, I would draw it in myself.
But strangely enough, the arrow was always there. At first it was ungainly, but gradually it became a straight line. It was added on when it started to fade. There was no doubt about it, it was proof that that man had painted it.
Then I got a job, met your mother, got married, you were born... I got so busy that I forgot about the spray paint, the construction site, and that man.
But that was when you were 5 or 6 years old. So... around 2008. I remembered the construction site on my way home after playing with you at the park. I was on my way home so I decided to stop by. It had been 20 years since I met that man. I'm sure the spray paint has worn off by now, but I felt nostalgic. I holding you in my arms and went to have a look. You probably wouldn't remember.
And then... there it was. An arrow. And next to the arrow, it clearly said "New Inn." "New Inn" might be the name of the new cafe the man was talking about.
And the spray paint wasn't scratched at all. Usually it fades with the wind and rain, but that means the man had covered it with spray paint. So he'd been going to the construction site for 20 years? Would he go to such lengths for someone who hadn't come to see him for 20 years? I was stunned.
Maybe because I was standing there holding you in my arms, people passing by were worried about me. "Did something happen?" I said. I quickly denied it and asked the passerby where the "New Inn" was. It was right where the arrow was.
The New Inn was a nice cafe. It was crowded on a holiday and the atmosphere seemed nice. Then, I suddenly noticed one of the customers. He was sitting at a table for two and reading a book.
For some reason, I thought "That's the guy I met that night." I only talked to him briefly 20 years ago, so of course I don't remember his face clearly. And even though 20 years should have aged, he looked about the same age as me...in other words, in his 30s. So it couldn't have been him, but for some reason I thought "That's him." He had the same vibe. His demeanor, I guess. I can't explain it well.
His vibe was like "I'm waiting for someone," so maybe that reminded me even more of the spray man. Normally, when you sit down at a two-seater by yourself, you put your luggage or jacket on the empty seat. But he left one seat empty. It looked like he was waiting for someone to come.
I wanted to talk to him, but felt a bit embarrassed so I stopped. "I don't want to interrupt his meeting," I thought, so I bought a takeaway coffee. A gift for your mom.
After that, I decided to stop by the New Inn on my way back from playing with you at the park. I wanted to make sure he had made it to the meeting point. Not every weekend, but always on nice days. Even after you started elementary school. That's probably why you remember. You loved the lemonade at that cafe.
"Was that guy always there?" you ask? Yeah. He was there. Every time I went in, he was always at the table for two. One seat was always empty.
I wonder if he was able to meet up with his friend. Of course I know that the man at the New Inn isn't the one I gave the spray can to. But for some reason it's been bothering me... Because that night, he was holding the spray can in his hand with all his might. I hope it was helpful...
**
A few weeks after hearing my father's story, I was heading to the New Inn to ask professor about my homework. I could have gone during office hours, but my class schedule was packed, so I planned to look for him at the New Inn.
I considered emailing him, but the cafe was close to my house, so I thought it would be quicker. I also wanted to have one more lemonade from that cafe.
The cafe was the same as it had been ten years ago. Of course, the interior had changed, but the atmosphere and the customer were the same as when I was eight years old. It wasn't the type of cafe you'd find in a tourist guide, nor was it the type of cafe that would become popular on social media. It felt like a cafe that had been loved by locals for a long time. The cafe seemed smaller than I remembered, but that was probably because I'd grown taller.
I found my professor. He was sitting at a two-seater table, facing his laptop. He was so engrossed in the screen in front of him that he didn't notice me at the door.
“Every time I went in, he was always at the two-seater table. One side was always empty.”
Suddenly, my father's voice echoed in my head. My shoulders stiffened a little, but I decided to talk to the professor. There was no way my father's story had anything to do with the professor. It was true that the seat opposite the professor was empty, but it was probably just a coincidence.
"Professor Gadling um... I'm taking your 'Introduction to History' class at university. Do you have time?"
When I spoke to him, the professor looked up and blinked. He must have been trying to remember my face. It was a large class, so it was no wonder he didn't remember my face or name.
"Oh, are you a student from Tuesday's class? Do you have any questions?"
Then we moved on to talking about homework, and the matter was resolved faster than I expected. There was no time to offer me a chair.
"Thank you very much. Well, I'll be off then."
"Are you going home?"
"I haven't finished my homework for the other class yet. I'll buy a lemonade and go home."
I looked at the menu hanging on the wall. From my memory of 10 years ago, there should have been an illustration of a lemon on the blackboard, but... I couldn't find it.
"I think they used to have lemonade on the menu, but they don't have it anymore."
The professor answered, following my gaze. He tilted his head a little, looking disappointed.
"No, it's fine. Thank you."
I'm not at an age where I can only drink juice. I decided to buy a coffee to take home instead of lemonade. I nodded to the professor and headed to the counter.
When I tell my order at the counter, the waiter asked me, "Are you a student?"
When I nodded, the waiter smiled.
"Well, you were talking to the professor after all. It's great that students come to the cafe to ask him questions as this increases orders."
"Does he come here often?"
In the first class, he said, "I'm usually at a place called New Inn," but I didn't think the waiter would remember him. The waiter whispered to me over the counter. He seems to be the type who likes to gossip.
"He comes here almost every day. Not for work, but for whatever reason. When he has a few days off during exams or a business trip, he gets really impatient and asks, "Did anyone come to see me?" or "Did anyone leave a message?"
"Is that why he's sitting in a two-seater?"
My father's voice echoed in my head ("He has the vibe of a person who is waiting for someone") No, 10 years ago, the professor would be in his 20s. My father said, "He's about the same age as I was then," so there's no way he could be the same person as the professor.
The waiter answered as he prepared the sugar and milk.
"Yes, he always sits in that seat. When the cafe is busy, it's a bit of a hassle to have a two-person seat taken up, though. Well, he seems to be the son of someone the previous manager was indebted to, so the cafe can't say anything too forceful."
I see, so he's the son. The person my teenage father met must have been the professor's father. It makes sense why my father felt that the atmosphere was the same 10 years ago. The professor and his father probably use the New Inn as a meeting place. The people they're meeting are also father and son, so they might be family friends.
As I was convincing myself, the waiter added something more.
"Apparently, he's meeting up with a slender man in black clothes and black hair. He won't tell me the name of the person, though. Do you have any idea, student? I hear all the time, so I've been wondering too."
"Well, it's hard to tell with just that information..."
In fact, there are probably a few people who dress like that. It's the opposite of what the professor dresses, though. I gave a vague answer and paid the bill.
As I was leaving the cafe, I suddenly remembered the professor's response. "They should have had lemonade a while ago. They might not have it anymore." I wonder when the professor meant by "a while ago." Was the professor still there 10 years ago?
Oh well. My history homework is more important now. Feeling the warmth of the coffee in my hands, I started walking, and gradually forgot what the professor had said.
**
A few days later, I was heading to the New Inn again. This time, it wasn't to see the professor, but to have coffee.
I was planning to go for a walk in the park where I used to play as a child, but it was noisy with police and ambulances there. Maybe there had been an accident. I didn't think I could take a peaceful walk, so I gave up on the park and headed for the New Inn.
When I entered the cafe, I couldn't believe my eyes. There was someone sitting across from the professor!
I could only see his back, so I couldn't tell what kind of person. Maybe he is a student? But it didn't look like they were talking about classes. That's because the professor seemed to be having a lot of fun.
The professor showed him his smartphone and made exaggerated gestures... it reminded me of a large dog wagging its tail to get friendly. No, that was really rude to the professor.
Perhaps it was because I couldn't hear the person sitting across from professor that it contrasted with the professor's fun-loving appearance. He seemed to be a quiet person, listening to what professor was saying. All I could see was the professor talking one-sidedly.
I looked at him secretly, without being rude. I couldn't see his face, but he had black hair and a black coat... he looked the same as the waiter had said a few days ago. Could he be the person the professor was meeting?
When I went to the counter, it was the same waiter from a few days ago. When he noticed it was me, he shrugged and started talking in a low voice. It seemed like he really wanted to tell someone about this. It made sense. It was understandable, since the cafe had been dragged along to meet the professor and his friend.
"You can ask the professor another question next time. From the looks of it, he is going to be talking nonstop from now on. It's been a while since that goth guy came to the cafe, but I've never seen him look so happy. At first, they were quiet and didn't say anything to each other. But gradually, it seemed like they were talking. I guess they have a lot to talk about."
"Yes, I thought it would be better not to interrupt them. Can I have two coffees? I'll take them home."
One of the coffees was a souvenir for my father. I forgot to tell him that I had been to the New Inn a few days ago. I had to meet him and tell him the story of the younger generation (the professor and the man in black) had been successful. I thought my father would be happy.