Mongrel, p.8
Mongrel, page 8
When the flower princess reaches her fifteenth year, she is known by all as a curious creature. She thirsts for knowledge, truth and adventure as most princesses are wont to do. She of course has her usual guests to entertain and be entertained by, but she has grown weary of the same parlour games, the same jives and foxtrots. And so, when the princess spies a man standing outside her castle gates one day, she does not immediately close the curtains as she has been told to do, but stands there watching as the man stares back at her. He waves and, not wishing to be rude, the princess opens the window, and waves back in return.
Hello there! he shouts. I don’t wish to be bold,
But I’ve ridden for hours, and I’m sodden and cold!
I heard in the town you’ve a roaring fire,
Where I could get warm and a good deal drier?
Yes, I do, says the princess, that is true, that is true.
Then you won’t let a man catch his death, will you?
Not wanting to be rude, not wanting to say no,
The princess nods her head and lets her good sense go.
She hurries downstairs and opens the gate
And the man walks into her stately estate.
He follows her in and sits with a smile,
As he talks of weather and wealth for a while.
The princess is quiet, a good little host.
She offers him tea and marmalade toast.
Marmalade toast! That will not do!
We must have champagne. And strawberries too!
But there’s no celebration, it’s only us here.
Even more of a reason to drink up, my dear!
But I can’t really do that, it’s just not allowed.
What is it, dear princess? Too royal, too proud?
With booze in your belly there’s so much to know.
Have a drink with me, child, go on, have a go.
So the princess sips slow—she can’t lose her head
(Or anything else ), as her mother once said.
The champagne is poured. The glasses are sunk.
He tops up their flutes and soon she is drunk.
It feels like that time she went riding a horse.
A galloping ride of lilting discourse.
Now, where are your strawberries? I’d love something sweet!
I’m a little light-headed—
Perhaps it’s the heat?
Let’s go to the garden and get some fresh air,
You must have some sweet juicy fruit for me there.
Well, she says blushing, it’s getting quite late.
If it’s cold air you want, try the front, through the gate.
Nonsense! He says. The night is still young!
Why would I leave when we’re having such fun?
I must see your garden! I simply must!
Don’t worry, dear girl, in me you can trust.
But the princess, she frowns, she tarries, then stops.
She looks to the man, all niceties drop.
A peculiar rhyme we find ourselves in.
It’s a little uncouth. When did it begin?
The man takes her hand and says in her ear,
We sing the same song, do we not, my sweet dear?
When they enter the garden, he gasps at the sight.
A thriving display of earthly delight!
Of flowers and buds and birds and trees.
He cannot believe the beauty he sees.
And right at the centre, a locked garden gate.
He tiptoes towards it. Sealing her fate.
What’s through here? he enquires. I’d so love a peep!
Nothing! she says. Time to go, time for sleep!
But I’m sure I can smell something juicy and sweet.
I can smell a ripe fruit. I can smell it. Smells a treat.
Oh no, she says, blushing, and turning in haste.
Don’t be bashful, dear princess, I just want a taste.
That thing should be picked and plucked and juiced,
Pulverised, strained and then reduced!
I can show you how, I have done it before.
I’m good with my hands. Now, open the door!
But remember how warm it was by the fire?
Oh, let us return. Better yet, I’ll retire!
I must not keep you, you’re tired, no doubt.
Good evening, dear man! You know your way out!
Here, he says softly, with his arm around her.
That’s warmer already, not as cold as you were?
Oh, she says. Thank you. That’s awfully kind . . .
Better now, princess?
Ye—
Then, do you mind?
I cannot resist that smell on the air,
And that key round your neck must be heavy to wear!
Well, it is rather heavy and burdensome too.
But it’s precious to me, and what’s it to you?
I wear it right next to my heart every day—
Be quiet, young princess. I’ll show you the way.
Then the man takes the key from the princess’s chest.
And he shoves it in the hole. An uninvited guest.
I don’t want to do this, she whispers, she cries.
As her soul mutters to her, (he’s a thief in disguise.)
He pushes and pulls and yanks at the key,
And what she sees next, she can never unsee.
The door swings open as the world turns cold and in the centre is the pomegranate, which he takes in his hands and tears in two, rips, devouring hungrily, the red juice dripping down his chin, tearing the untouched flesh, teeth flashing, drinking, pushing fruit meat wherever it may fit until he is sated and spent. The princess stands there frozen. The garden around her recedes and rots. The purple orchids wilt, the knotweed creeps, the grass infests with worms.
My pomegranate , she whispers. My beautiful pomegranate.
It’s mine now, princess, and I’ll keep what I found,
Just a game that we played, like the fox and the hound.
The thrill of the chase, the joy of the hunt.
And all for a taste of your sweet little—
Cut it out!
And the princess turns and walks back to the castle, back to the fire. Where she stays indoors for many years, too afraid to let anyone in, too afraid to speak of him who, through many days spent thawing by the fire, she learns was a thief and never a friend.
A thief in disguise.
A thief in the night.
A thief of beauty and all things bright.
Yuki
When Yuki misses her period during the fourth month living with him, she knows exactly what has happened. There is no self-delusion, no disbelief. When she sees the two pink lines there is a dread. Followed by hope. An unravelling of light leading to her future with Alex by her side and a baby in her arms. She sits there staring down at the plastic stick still warm with her urine.
(He is mine now)
And with this thought her shoulders drop, her jaw unclenches.
(I hold him inside of me. Alex is mine. He is mine now.)
That night, she sleeps deep for the first time in weeks, and in the morning when they wake, she tells him.
He is silent then says,
What?
Twice in quick succession, the second time more urgent than the first. Yuki repeats herself.
Alex gets out of bed.
What do you mean?
A baby.
A fly scrambles against the glass of the window.
But. We used a condom. We always use a condom. Are you sure?
Yes. I did test.
When?
Yesterday.
And you didn’t tell me?
I . . .
Fuck. Okay. Fuck. Um. Well, we should do another one. Sometimes they’re wrong, you know, especially the cheap ones. How much did you pay? For the test?
. . . I. I don’t know—
And then we can talk about options, but first we should . . . Right. You get dressed, or whatever. I’ll go out and get another test. Okay?
. . . Okay.
Okay.
Yuki doesn’t get dressed. She lies there trying to contain her panic.
He comes back and she pees on the stick and the two pink lines appear again and Alex laughs. It is a humourless laugh, and it hurts, but she doesn’t say anything. She is too busy watching him for signs of retreat.
Right, he says. Right.
His back is to her. The shower drips.
Alex?
He turns, mouth open. A fish caught in a net.
Are you okay?
. . . Yes. I’m fine.
Yuki knows he is not fine, so she smiles in resistance, and says,
I’m happy.
Which would have been true half an hour ago.
She touches her stomach.
You are?
Yes.
We. Come on, let’s get out of this bathroom, I can’t think.
She sits on the sofa while Alex stands, shifting his weight, crossing and un-crossing his arms.
Yuki wants to scratch her face off.
So. There are. Options. We have options. It’ll be very early in its term, I mean we’ve only been together for about three months for god’s sake, it’s not like—
He stops himself. Yuki shivers and bites her lip. A sudden urge to laugh comes over her.
She focuses on the floorboards.
We have options and I think we should talk about them. This has happened all very quickly and, you know. This is a big decision. I mean, you’re eighteen. Have you told your parents?
She shakes her head.
Right. Well. Maybe you shouldn’t tell them. For now. You know, I’m not sure how legal or— Alex swallows. Well, of course you’re old enough, but, I’m not sure they’d necessarily approve. And . . . Well? Come on, Yuki. What are you thinking?
I don’t understand. I’m happy. It’s good isn’t it? A baby.
But. You’re so young. This is. We’re so new, you know, it’s not like we’ve been together for years or anything. I mean, come on, you live in Japan. I live here. I mean . . . It’s just not realist—
Speak slower. Please.
Sorry. I just. I don’t think we should make any sudden decisions.
I’m not. I want the baby.
What?
She is quiet.
Yuki! Come on! You can’t be real. I know it’s—obviously, it’s lovely. And you know, we care for each other, but it’s. A lot. It’s a lot. You don’t want to be a mother, do you?
Yes. I do.
Alex scrunches up his face and looks at her as if she is mad.
But there are options. You can, you know, it doesn’t have to be a big deal, you can—
What, what can I do? I’m pregnant so I will have baby.
Don’t be naive! You can see a doctor! It will be quick, easy. It’s nothing to be afraid of or anything else. I’ll come with you, look after you. There might even be a pill that just. It won’t hurt . . .
He trails off as Yuki begins to murmur something under her breath. It grows in volume until Alex can make it out.
Baka, she says. Baka, baka!
She hits her head with her fist. Again and again.
Hey. Stop that.
Honto ni baka!
Yuki raises her fist again, but Alex catches it.
The first time he has touched her since the happy news.
Stop. Stop it.
She pulls against him but his grip is firm.
It’s okay, it’s okay . . . Please, Yuki.
She sags against him. He lets go of her arm. Hesitates. Then embraces her.
There is quiet and then,
I want the baby, she says into his shoulder. I want the baby.
Alex feels a wetness soak the front of his freshly laundered shirt.
Okay, he says. Okay.
*
Yuki monitors both baby and boyfriend as the weeks turn into months. Alex is kind, helpful, present. But there is also a part of him that is closed off from her. As Yuki’s belly grows, Alex shrinks from her. The idea of sex becomes stomach-turning—if he were to enter her, he might disrupt something inside, organs might erupt, life might be interfered with. He might bring about another.
Although Yuki knows she is pregnant, she doesn’t feel it. It isn’t until the fatigue hits that she realises she is sharing her body with another. The tiredness floors her. She stops teaching her violin lessons and mostly lies on the sofa watching daytime TV. When she has the energy, she writes letters to her mother and father that she never sends. Most days Yuki picks up her violin and plays a little, but she finds she cannot concentrate like she used to, that her mind wanders across notes and floorboards and windows, until she is lying on the sofa, staring at nothing, a cup of ginger tea, for the nausea, cold and forgotten beside her.
They go to the hospital for the first scan and there is the little thing in grey and black. The midwife tells her the baby is the size of a small plum and Yuki thinks of the unripe green plums her mama picks and soaks in shochu and rock sugar. The syrupy wine fermenting in the dark, waiting to be poured for celebrations. She wants to call her mama and say,
Today, the midwife told me the baby is the size of a plum. It’s growing. Have a glass of umeshu with Papa to celebrate. You will be grandparents soon.
I miss you.
But she doesn’t.
Yuki knows the pain she will inflict when her parents discover a foreigner has occupied their only daughter.
So, she waits until the twenty-week scan to be certain there is no going back. She has to know it is real. That she carries two beating hearts inside her body now.
一
When Yuki was younger, she imagined, with a distant dread, that she would marry a hard-working, suit-wearing salary man. The kind that liked baseball. But not too much, not fanatically. A kind man, with a kind face who appreciated the simple things. Sandwiches from the station kiosk, cotton multi-pack underwear, a decent shoe brush. The type of man that wouldn’t stray or develop a drinking problem. A man that could even out Yuki’s secret appetite for life, who would reign her in with measured words when she felt too much, or wanted too much. The type of man that did not set her on fire, so she might remain free.
When Yuki was in high school, she had dated a boy like this. His name was Taichi Sakamoto. They had found themselves in a shy relationship, one that was not driven by any kind of strong feelings—at least not on Yuki’s part. Taichi had a feminine face with expressive, angry eyes that felt at odds with his mild countenance. His frame was skinny, his body lithe, and Yuki liked how his skin would darken in the summer to a coppery brown. Yuki had never felt anything in the way of desire towards him, but one day after class he had asked her out to the local park, and she had said yes. The following day at school, there were whispers that they had gone on a date.
When Taichi had been younger, he and Yuki had shared similar interests at school—music, art, history. Taichi was a talented painter, but his parents’ emphasis on academia meant that he only ever saw those subjects as secondary pursuits. They were reserved for the long summer holidays, or a rare, stolen evening when his homework was complete. Taichi’s father owned a very successful sake distillery in Tokamachi that was to be his inheritance after his father retired. The Sakamotos were a big name in Niigata, and it was Taichi’s duty to one day take over the business and eventually expand it. Yuki’s mother had been pleased when Yuki started visiting his house. It was one of those houses that everyone would walk by and wonder at, appeasing their jealousy by telling themselves that rich people were morally polluted. The house had ornate steel gates, a winding entrance and an immense garden. Yuki was drawn to the grandeur of the place. The sweeping dark-tiled rooftops, the kaleidoscopic pond full of koi fish. It was a traditional Japanese home with tatami mats and sleek wooden flooring. In the garden were lush camellias set against a dry rock garden, with bamboo water features, large pruned bonsai trees and grey sandpits raked into waves like the ripples across a lake. Yuki was far more in love with the house than the boy that lived between its walls—Taichi seemed so inadequate in comparison. Too much like a shadow, his body full of apologies. He spoke in mumbles and entered rooms as if he were always intruding. When he held Yuki’s hand, his grip was loose and his eyes met the floor more often than her own.
She knew that Taichi’s fragility was more noticeable when he was with her. She knew she held a kind of power over him. She was the reason he took the long route home through the falling snow, just so he could walk in awkward silence beside her. She liked how he would buy her presents like teddy bears and boxes of donuts and pyjama sets. She didn’t like the things so much as the affirmation that she had a hold over him. Within the parameters of this love, Yuki felt safe. She could never be heartbroken by a boy like Taichi. Her indifference towards him would never grow into anything unmanageable, it would never eat her up.
