マウルルロア

･･･ バゲットとシロップの飲み薬 ･･･

The Baguette and the Syrup Medicine

On that small island,
there was a tiny little bakery that sold two types of baguette.
I can't remember at all how many francs they cost,
but the price difference was about double.
And that other baguette,
lined up on the shelf with its golden sheen and fancy shape,
was packed up for me each morning.

The baguette I ate every day had a fragrant crust, but when I bit off a piece,
the beige dough inside had a strangely bittersweet taste.
I didn't really like that taste, but if I left any I would be scolded by my mother;
so I would cover it up with a generous helping of butter
and quickly cram it into my mouth.

A change in the circumstances of my parents' work commitments
brought those years on the island to an end,
and the second instance must have been some time after I had returned to Japan.

I had a fever from a cold,
and I thought the syrup medicine I was given at the hospital
tasted exactly like that baguette I had eaten on the island -
this was my peculiar confirmation of why I had never been able to like it.

･･･ レジンの海と海賊船長 ･･･

The Resin Sea and the Pirate Captain

Gathering energy from the downpour of sunlight,
I picked flowers which had bloomed in vibrant reds, yellows and pinks -
as well as white tiaré flowers that had a scent like clear syrup.
I adorned myself with one behind my left ear;
and on occasion, chased the geckos that crossed my feet -
as I made my way along a path leading to a sandy beach, with a little pier.

The sea was the glossy colour of cider, as if encased in clear resin -
in its shallows sea turtles swam -
and one or two rough, fuzzy coconuts had fallen on the shore.

I sat on the tip of the little pier with my toes dipped in the ocean,
enjoying the waves reflecting the morning sun, which I had all to myself.
I nibbled just a little on the end of the baguette,
which I'd been asked to get on my early morning errand.
I had made this moment - where I would intently listen to the waves -
like some kind of magical ritual,
into a precious part of my daily routine.

If I gazed at the seawater, which seemed so delicious in its sparkle,
for too long then I would end up wondering if it might taste sweet.
Even though I knew that couldn't be so,
there were times when I couldn't help but cup my hands to it and take a sip.

But the crystal-clear seawater was, of course,
salty enough to seep into my chapped fingers and broken nails,
and each time I would feel a bit embarrassed for deluding myself
into thinking it might taste good.

It's just that after a scant few days,
I would again be deceived by that clear cider colour and repeat my mistake -
thinking "Surely this time...", always to be met with the same silly regret.

Sitting there on the pier as I did,
there were times I carelessly let myself get caught in a sudden squall.
In an instant, the whole island would be enveloped in ominous ashen clouds,
and the howling wind would echo eerily.

The raindrops would sting as they hit me unrelentingly, as that horizon of blue sky,
which had seemed so endless, changed in shade.
Even that deep green mountain,
which ordinarily was a formidable presence -
jutting out from the center of the island as it did -
seemed to transform into yet more maliciously cruel colours and expressions.
Almost as if looking at me in challenge,
like a pirate captain I knew about from the legends.

As if to dispel my shiver of fear, I'd think,
"If it comes down to it, I'll give it a blow with this hard baguette."

Glaring intently at an unseen enemy,
and at that squall which showed no signs of stopping,
I wielded the chewed-on baguette vigorously above my head,
and ran home through the heavy rain as fast as I could.

Having gotten the better of the elements,
my clothes and hair were drenched and muddy when I arrived home.
My mother would rush to whoosh me up into a big bath towel, exclaiming,
"Welcome home!! I was so worried, thank you, are you okay?"
as I was wrapped from head to toe.

She'd put the baguette, ruined by the rain,
into a frying pan with milk mixed with egg and sugar,
carefully watching the heat.
And she would patiently listen to my story of battling the squall from beginning to end.
I would begin to feel completely at ease as I gazed at her face,
recounting my story of bravery to my heart's content.
Until I would ask for another serving of the warm baguette -
it having become mushy in the sweet milk, no longer so bitter.

･･･ 恵みの雨と白いフリルの襟のドレスシャツ ･･･

Blessed Rain and the Dress Shirt with the Frilly Collar

On Sundays, the pastor who bestowed upon me the name
"the woman who brings blessed rain"
always wore a fitted white dress shirt with a frilly collar.

The pastor had fluffy golden hair, and his eyelashes were golden too.
His skin had a pale pink tint to it, sunburnt slightly red.

In his small and simple chapel called "Crimson Flower",
that always smiling pastor always calmly and slowly taught us various words,
songs and stories.

When I sang what I had just learnt,
he was so happy that his eyes would wrinkle beside the golden lashes,
and he would praise me much as he smiled.
Because I too became so happy in return,
there was no helping it -
I became fixated on singing rather than praying.

The pastor's frilly collared shirt looked beautiful from the front,
but for some reason the back part had come undone,
and there holes of various sizes here and there.

He would be drenched in sweat within the small chapel
where the strong southerly winds would blow in.

And yet the pastor had his shirt firmly fastened up to the top button.
Every time he would turn around during prayer and pledge something,
his shoulders would become visible through the gaps, and I would find it so funny.
I always managed to hold back the laughter that would well up,
but every week I had a hard time with it.

Yet now that I think back on it,
that shirt was probably the only one the pastor owned -
formal attire, a dress shirt made in France -
something that would have been very costly on the island.

He'd probably been mending and mending again that single shirt through the years.
So that on the precious Sundays where the people of the island would gather,
he could wear it as he welcomed every single person
with those deep feelings of tenderness.

No matter your age or colour of skin.
He treated everyone with the respect owed to each single life.
...maururu roa, put your hand on your chest.
"Thank you, I'm sorry, forgive me, I love you."

To that song that remains in my heart.
To that island, which resides in this voice.

I dedicate it to my mother, to the pastor, and the island.
Rurutia Vahine
"A woman who brings blessed rain"