Written by Giu Yukari Murakami
Edited by Lucas Ferraz
Translated by André Colabelli
Copyedited by Iana A.
On a certain night, I noticed that the branches from a mango tree planted on my house’s front yard had started to creep inside my bedroom window. At first, I didn’t mind it. The distorted shadows under the streetlights didn’t frighten me, quite the opposite: it brought me respite to have such unusual company after so many months without even a single visit.
That all changed when the branches crept through the window, grabbing at its edges and stretching out to my bed. It was the dead hours of an August night. All I remember was that I was so sleepy, my eyelids too heavy and my body too tired to worry much about the shadows that seemed to seep into my room. It was but another dream! A dream filled with an unusual scent of wood and the soft rustling of leaves, maybe too real… I couldn’t tell. When the sun rose, I was trapped.
The actual fright came to me even before I opened my eyes after waking up: I felt the sugary smell of mangoes and the roughness of the branches. When I woke up completely, I stifled a scream. The gnarled arms snaked around me like veins.
At first I focused on breathing, fearful that at any moment I might be crushed by the wood. After feeling my heartbeat slow, I pushed branches and leaves aside, trying to open a passage so I could leave my bed. I was able to stand up, but as I started to push myself to escape, the boughs stretched up and held on to me. I let out a painful cry as the branches spiraled around my arms in a slow process that left me paralyzed in fear. Finally, the roughness of the wood found its final destination on my wrists, where leafy twigs stretched amongst my fingers like a cape that extended from my back to my hands.
I took a deep breath, trying to comprehend the situation. It couldn’t be a dream, not with such a heavy weight on my back, with such a vivid feeling of pain. Endless questions ran through my mind as I thought of asking for help, but who could help me? Should I call the cops or the fire department? Maybe even a botanist?
I tried to walk to the bathroom, but the tree branches held me still. I felt my shoulders being pushed, straightening my back. Then, with a sudden movement, I was turned towards the door and out of the bedroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the mango tree remained motionless outside, as if only its branches were aware of the power they had over me. Such power was reinforced through shoving and a growing sensation of crushing weight. The more I tried to stop walking, the harder the branches propelled me forward, and after I felt my skin burn in pain from the pointless struggle, I let myself be led to wherever the tree wished to take me.
It took me downstairs, to the kitchen. Dirty dishes and glasses from the previous night made the sink look like a warzone. I thought about the house chores I’d have to do once I got rid of the tree. I always came home late, after a full day of work and college classes, and I barely had time to eat whatever I could find in the fridge before I went up and slept like a log. Sometimes I’d just sleep on the couch in the living room, lacking the willpower to go up to the bedroom.
As my thoughts digressed, the leaves stretched as if startled by the sight. Next, the twigs on my left arm pulled it back, making me raise my hand in front of my eyes. My own hand, gloved in sapling, made an involuntary motion, bringing together my middle finger to the tip of my thumb. I had no time to understand how it was moving on its own before I flicked my own nose.
Feeling that familiar sting brought up a memory that made my heart jump.
“Batchan?” My arms, again on their own, drew an arch around my waist in a gesture of censorship. I blushed. That was impossible. “Batchan, what are you… What’s going on? Am I dead?”
My right hand moved its index finger from side to side in a reproachful response, then pointed to the calendar illustrated with cherry blossoms that was on the kitchen counter, next to the seasonings.
“August 13th”, I read it out loud and shrugged. “What about it?”
Even though it wasn’t very hard to ignore my technical know-how when it came to my family, talking to tree branches that made my hands and arms move against my will, as if they were my batchan, made for such an embarrassing situation that I decided to pretend I wasn’t a senior in a Physics undergraduate course at Universidade Federal do Pará.
Batchan seemed mad with me. She flicked my nose again.
“Égua, that hurts. Will you stop this, batchan? Why did you bring me here?”
Batchan used my hands to turn on the stove, put a frying pan over the heat and start preparing the gohan on the rice cooker, while I tried to understand why that was happening to me. It’s not that I didn’t miss batchan, but she’d been dead for some seven years and one couldn’t be expected to deal very well when being visited by a dead relative in the shape of branches from a mango tree.
Then I gasped.
“Goodness, batchan”, I said as her skillful hands, or rather, my hands, skillful thanks to her, moved quickly between breaking the egg and stirring it on a bowl using chopsticks, so it could then be placed on the frying pan. “That mango tree was fertilized with your ashes. Does that mean that if I die I could be cremated and have my ashes scattered on an ipê tree, and could come back and fly around as petals? And on that note, why did you only come no--”
My left hand moved to hold my mouth shut. This time I had to stifle a laugh. That was such a batchan move it made me feel happy and nostalgic.
She kept using my hands to cook the meal. After the rice was done, she let it cool in front of a fan while she boiled the tucupi and threw some fresh shrimps on the yellowed broth. The acid smell invaded my nostrils, contrasting with the mildly salty scent coming from the nori seaweed stripes spread on a large plate.
Colors and smells from my childhood. That was when I understood why batchan had pointed out the calendar.
August was an important month. That was when our old home in Tomé-Açu was filled to the brim with relatives, and a profusion of conversations in both Japanese and Portuguese mixed with the noise of the knives batchan and the aunties used to cut vegetables. The air was heavy with fragrances: the pitiú[2] of whatever kind of fresh fish we could afford, spicy carê[3], the leaves-and-pork smell of the maniçoba[4], the earthy açaí. That was the result of many stories that had come together over the years.
I would run along with my cousins around the house, playing tag, and sometimes I’d be the brave soul to sneak into the kitchen and filch a makizushi, well stuffed with ginger, cucumber, eggs, and chicken. When I managed to get past batchan, I’d take an entire roll to my cousins. When I got caught, instead I got endless flicks to my nose. By the end of the day, with a bellyful of açaí, all the scoldings would have been forgotten.
Over time, some of my great-uncles passed away. Several illnesses, they said: overwork in Japan, the hot sun while farming, crooked-spine disease, stung by a Uwabami, one of them had his soul taken away by the Moon Princess… As a child, I suspect about half those stories were lies, but the circumstances didn’t matter: I knew all of them would be cremated, burned to ashes. The first time I saw an uncle turn to dust I was ten years old, and I could swear it was magic.
When it was my batchan's turn, I was already in college. My dekasegi[5] parents weren’t in Brazil during her last days. They gave me their support through phone calls, giving instructions and money from Japan. I remember I was with her every day and night at the hospital. I tried to do all she asked through her silent eyes. We didn’t talk much because I, like an innocent child, always thought I’d have time to learn Japanese the proper way, so I never made an effort to understand much of the language beyond basic everyday sentences. And as batchan had grown up using her mother tongue, she couldn’t adapt to Portuguese to overcome my own limitations.
It happened in December. We’d arrived from a routine visit at the hospital when the doctor had already warned me that there was nothing to be done. I made her some miso soup just the way she liked it, with plenty of soy. She drank all of it and we stared at each other throughout the night. I told her about college, explaining to her scientific terminology she would never comprehend. Batchan listened in silence until she started talking about her own life, or, at least, so I supposed. We both pretended to understand each other so we could eternize a moment that my memory could reach whenever I felt alone.
That night, she gave me a kiss on the cheek. It was the first kiss I’d gotten from her in all my twenty years. The first and the last.
That memory choked me, and the breath I’d been holding expanded faster than I could be ready. I shook my body in a vain attempt to keep my tears from falling on the rice balls my batchan rolled so carefully in nori seaweed.
“Gomen[6], batchan!”
She used my left hand to dry my cheeks. I felt the coarse wood before batchan moved my thumb along my cheekbones in an affectionate gesture. I half-smiled as I lay my head on my—her hand.
“Arigatou.”
We continued to spread rice on the nori seaweed, taking some shrimp from the tucupi to stuff the onigiris. I paid close attention to how she closed the edges of the nori seaweed in a pyramid shape as she squeezed the gohan. I missed her food as much as I missed the time we’d spent together in Tomé-Açu. As much as it was a frighteningly abnormal possession, I needed to take advantage of the fact that she controlled my body so well in her tree form.
Batchan used me to assemble a small feast on a wooden tray: onigiris stuffed with shrimp and tucupi, stripes of sweetened omelette accompanied by ginger and carrot shavings. She carefully moved the branches on my arms to support the tray and led me to the front door. I tried to protest as I walked, getting in my own way as I opened the door. I felt the boughs untangle from me, and batchan retreated into the house, disappearing from my sight while she backtracked through the stairway to my room, undoing the path her branches had taken.
From the second floor, batchan returned through the window until her branches were on the right side of the mango tree. Another set of branches started moving on its left side, contorting themselves into a pair of hands with thin, leafy fingers. The noodly hands showed what would be their palms, as if they were offering something, but its fingers started opening and closing towards the palm; they were inviting me to approach.
When I took my first step out of the house I found it strange how empty the street was. The heat from my stuffy kitchen was being softened by the morning wind, a rare cool temperature in Belém. I breathed deeply from the scent of tall grass and stopped in front of the mango tree. It looked bigger than what I remembered, imposing in all its natural majesty amongst the concrete jungle.
I fixed my gaze in the wide leaves dancing against the wind, the mangoes still green, moving discreetly. The hand-shaped boughs pointed downwards. It took me some time to understand what they were pointing out, so tall the grass had grown, until a sparkle drew my attention. I opened part of the lawn aside and nearly stepped on a picture in a gold-foiled frame. I stood still before batchan’s photo and felt my knees go weak. The branch-hands held my weight and helped me kneel before my grandmother’s picture.
“Batchan, I am so sorry.”
Trembling, I started to take the bowls from the tray and spread the food around the picture. I let my tears flow free as I whispered apologies. How long had it been since I’d last paid my respects if I even forgot the special altar I had made for her?
I touched her picture; she was dressed in her party kimono, a black one with golden flowers, their petals stretching along the dark background. She smiled in her usual way; a silent non-smile, a straight line that sometimes frightened and charmed me in equal measures.
August was the month of the Obon Matsuri, the Festival of the Dead. It had been seven years or more since I’d last paid my respects to any of my relatives. It’d been too long, even for Batchan, forgotten amongst the tall grass in my yard.
The boughs of the mango tree approached me again. Some leaves rubbed against my face, wiping off my tears. I laughed as I clumsily touched the branches, fearful I’d break them, but trying to convey all the feelings that flooded me, between the memory of my carelessness and the love I felt. The branches grabbed me strongly, tangling into me like a serpent snaking up a tree, a crushing tenderness we’d never experienced before. I hugged them back as I stared at the onigiris. I would be the one to roll the rice balls next year. Her hands deserved to finally rest.
[1] Tucupi is a yellow juice extracted from wild cassava when it is peeled, grated and squeezed.
[2] Slang from the state of Pará for the strong smell typical of fish
[3] Brazilian spelling for Japanese curry.
[4] Dish that uses as a base ingredient “maniva”, ground cassava leaves. It’s often called “beanless feijoada”.
[5] Term used in Brazil to describe Japanese descendants Brasilians that went to Japan to work temporarily.
[6] Japanese for “sorry”.
Giu Yukari Murakami
Giu Yukari Murakami is a Japanese Brazilian author from the Amazonian region. She writes fantasy and science fiction, bringing cultural elements from her life in the Northern region of Brazil and yellow people representativeness in her stories.
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