Takeru had heard of Jamaica of course. That was where Usain Bolt came from. In a way slim long-limbed Joel looked a little like Bolt to Takeru.
The semester after the Beijing Olympics, the boys at school were always striking the bow-pulling pose before running during breaks or in P.E. class.
Takeru did it too, of course, not that it made him run any faster. Some of the older boys did it before their races on Field Day that autumn, and the spectators all cheered. Takeru hadn’t been chosen for the relay and always came last or second-to-last in his individual race. I hope my mother doesn’t see, he thought. But there was no chance of that. She had never come to a field day. Not once.
There were no school lunches on Field Day. Takeru’s mother didn’t give him a packed lunch, though. Instead, he was given some money to buy something at a convenience store. He didn’t tell anybody he didn’t have his own packed lunch. So how did anyone know?
When he arrived at the classroom that morning, Haruka Yuasa came over to him. She was a quiet girl, with short hair and round glasses. People said her grandparents owned the fields around the school. According to girls in the class who’d been over there to play, her family had a very big house. The grounds were vast, they said, with a storehouse and barn, and an officially protected keyaki elm that was over two hundred years old. The house also had a very rare old-fashioned veranda. Takeru had no clear image of what a veranda was then. He would suddenly remember Haruka one evening when he was having supper on the veranda at Mitsuko’s house. He’d feel a lump in his chest and want to cry—not knowing whether it was from happiness or sadness. Although he was in the same class as Haruka, they’d never been paired up or even put in the same group. He couldn’t remember speaking to her more than once or twice before.
“Takeru,” she said, coming up to his desk, “this is for you.”
She spoke in a hushed voice, as though confessing something she didn’t want anyone else to hear. Takeru looked down. On the desk she’d put something wrapped in a furoshiki cloth, tied firmly at the top. It was the shape of a small box.
“Lunch,” she said.
Being Field Day, the hubbub in the classroom was louder than normal, so her voice was almost completely drowned out. Her face was bright red, her breaths short and trembling. Takeru began to worry that the heat from her face and breath would steam up her glasses.
His own face was probably just as red as hers, his breathing just as awkward. He kept his eyes down. His ears pounded, his brain burning like an overheated motor. But he heard what she said:
“Take it. It’s from my mother. She told me to give it to you.”
For a moment Takeru couldn’t think at all. No, not just for a moment. It lasted much longer than that. Looking back, he couldn’t recall much from that day. He couldn’t remember what place he came in the race (probably last), or whether he’d managed the dance steps correctly (he wouldn’t have), or even what team he was on—red or white.
One thing he did remember though was that someone else had also been given a lunch box. Takeru saw Haruka take a similar bundle to Takuto Watanabe, a boy whose mother was from the Philippines. She didn’t seem to get quite as red when she gave the bundle to Takuto. People said Haruka went to church every Sunday, and Takuto wore a crucifix pendant—maybe that had something to do with it.
There was a little jizo shrine on the main street, where the cherry trees were beautiful in spring. In most places jizo—stone Buddhist figures that look like child monks—are given plain red bonnets and aprons. But at this shrine, somebody dressed them in pinks and yellows, with Hello Kitty or Miffy patterns. (Takeru would have preferred to see the jizo dressed in Pokemon patterns—Pikachu or Piplup.) Takeru heard that the shrine was on land owned by Haruka’s family. They own everything around here, he thought. Perhaps they owned the church too. It seemed strange to Takeru that a church and a jizo shrine might be associated in that way. To him they seemed like things that had no connection whatsoever. It was much later, in the graveyard by the sea, that he imagined a jizo with a crucifix around its neck. The idea made him smile. There were no bonnets or aprons on the jizo in that graveyard—just dull green lichen and scabies-like patterns on their bodies and heads formed by wind and rain. Their faces were flat and featureless.
Another thing he clearly remembered about the field day was that he’d hardly been able to eat any of the food he’d been given. Had he been full? No chance of that. He was always hungry. Children whose families were with them had lunch in the school yard or gym. Those with no visitors—like Takeru and Takuto Watanabe—ate in the classrooms. Takeru opened the bundle that Haruka had given him, thinking he should leave some to take home for his brother. He must have had an inkling, though, of what he’d find. His bundle was bigger than Takuto’s. It was twice as thick. He must have noticed that. And when he opened it he discovered not just an ordinary lunch box, but one that had two layers. Both layers contained the same food—most of the space on each layer was taken up by two large sushi rolls, the remaining third by a combination of fried egg, fried chicken, sausage, asparagus wrapped in bacon, and broccoli. It looked fantastic. An amazing lunch! But Takeru had no appetite. Some strange, heavy lump was blocking his throat, his stomach. He stretched quietly across to take a look at Takuto’s box, but it was too far away to see. Maybe his sight was blurred by tears. Still, there must have been the same food in Takuto’s box. But Takeru had been given two portions, specially wrapped up in a single cloth. Give this to Takeru, Haruka’s mother had told her. That was obvious. Like Takuto, Takeru was one of the smallest and thinnest children in the class. Did he look like someone who would eat so much? Maybe he did! Someone who ate endlessly, but stayed thin. No. Takeru was just kidding himself. Nobody would think that. The truth was staring him in the face. But how had Haruka’s mother known about his brother? Chopsticks motionless in his hand, Takeru stared down at the layered box, but he didn’t really see it. Somebody was thinking about his brother. Did this make him happy? Was that why he was crying? Or was it despair? Despair that something that shouldn’t be known, something that mustn’t be known, something that his mother probably, no, definitely, was trying to hide, had not been successfully concealed?
Still holding the chopsticks, Takeru wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and looked up. Takuto was staring at him anxiously. The moment Takeru caught his gaze, Takuto hurriedly turned his large eyes away and carried on eating, as though nothing had happened.
It can’t have been easy for Haruka to come to school carrying bundles for Takuto and Takeru (and his brother) in addition to her own things. Takeru tried to imagine how he’d have felt if it had been him doing that. He’d have been on edge, worried that other children might ask what the bundles were for. Haruka Yuasa wasn’t like that, though. She didn’t cower. She may have been red in the face and her breathing may have been awkward, but embarrassment didn’t defeat her. There was always something wrapped around her, something big that accepted her and supported her when she faltered.
It wasn’t her family’s big house. It wasn’t all the land they owned. It was something much bigger than either of those, so big it didn’t even stand comparison. It must be Haruka’s mother, Takeru thought. And it must be something in the church they went to together on Sundays. If Takeru had been told to take lunch for one of his classmates he’d have refused, thinking it was stupid, that he’d look stupid. But luckily (was it really lucky?) he didn’t have the kind of mother who’d prepare lunch for his classmates and make him bring it. In fact, he didn’t even have a mother who made lunch for her own child. Not having that kind of mother, Takeru didn’t recognize that big thing at all. He had no way of knowing. It’s reasonable to say that, isn’t it? Because to Takeru this big thing was maternal, something that was bound up with motherhood.