SONG: Ruelle - Secrets and Lies
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Derek Matthews
Aunt Marlene returned home last night. She and Uncle Thomas heard of my request to keep an eye on Rhett Wallace. They approved. Aunt Marlene is fond of April, anyway.
It is a Saturday. The Staff, embedded with poppies pinned to their attires, are awake earlier than usual to arrange the celebration — sixty chefs in the kitchens, chopping, frying, slicing, baking. Gratefully, the blessings were done as an act of dinkum, not condolence. I agreed with Aunt Marlene that a party was needed. I want to rename this day as not the death of my father, but the birth of me, as it should always be.
Aunt Marlene's gift is a stygian Bugatti Chiron Noire, and Uncle Thomas is a matte-murky Tesla Roadster. Luke: a black motorcycle, Ecosse ES1 Spirit. Sovereigns called to wish me. Priests. The Mayor. The Everstons. World leaders. Celebrities. The teachers and janitors. Surprisingly, I nattered to some adversaries.
I expected Lovel Siao to be sarcastic, rather astonished at the genuine humbleness. To think her sister is leading the Singaporeans — Fawn is the richest woman and person in the world, and yet the work ethic of my aunt is exceptional enough for bittersweet envy.
"Happy Birthday, Derek," wished Alessandro Acierno in his tongue.
Our blood boiled. Why couldn't it be anyone else?
Lin knocks on the opened door. I glance up from Atlas's paws, chipping his nails that are startlingly prolonged. Duke wandered off somewhere in the Manor. He hates a little manicure. It won't be a problem if Grandma does it.
Lin, in a beige sweater and chino pants, seals the door, something dangling in his left grasp. His smile wrinkles his eyes and he ruffles the dog's head. Atlas whines, Lin's fingers voyaging to under his chin.
He extends his present to me. "Happy birthday, musuko."
I diligently take it as if it is a brittle newborn.
His father's necklace ... His necklace. Spherical shaped, the foundation is wane, nonetheless the ouroboros is too prominent to dismiss: two scaled, ethereally-vicious dragons, one camouflaging the greyish-white tourmaline, the other merging with the obsidian-black. If I diagonally turn it to a flare, the fusion disappears: a black monster on the white, a white monster on the black.
The back is a motto in Japanese writing:
"Tazei ni buzei."
Few against many.
Lin proudly smiles, and in his language, "Your pronunciations are getting better."
"Slowly." My fingers graze the black and white creatures.
"Do you remember what dragons mean in Japan?"
"Dualism."
He nods. "Dragons are a mixture of both good and bad, hence why it is on the Tai Chi. In my country, they can symbolize balance — of dark and light; of mind, body and soul; the alignment of your consciousness and wellbeing. Inner balance is infinite abundance, and can lead to other gifts such as liberty and good luck."
This is one of his daily lessons, his daily reminders.
"Liberty and good luck are karmic gifts of jigou jitoku." Self-work, self-profit.
"Why?"
"Inner peace is freedom, and freedom is the greatest luck."
You can be a prisoner, but if you sustain that inner peace, you will never be imprisoned. You were and always shall be free.
His warm irises glister. I am finally and properly comprehending what it means, thanks to my jigou jitoku over the summer.
"Whether you are aware of the seeds or not, you reap what you sow. That is why this—" He touches his forehead. "—is more important than this—" His hands flatten on his heart. "The mind is imperatively abstract. Without it, we cease to exist. Coherence of it is sufficient and requisite to achieve that balance—the rarest satiety. From there, good luck and liberty are rewarded."
"You reap what you sow," I reiterate. "Life is a mirror."
"Yes. That's a good concept. Once your inner self is harmonised, so will your outside world. Perhaps it is not nature vs nurture. Perhaps it is both. A yin and yang — the dualism of society and nature, working together as a team like life and death, and like dark and light. It is the same principle, just different names.
"That is an heirloom that has lasted in my line for four generations. My ojīsan gave it to a miko when the Pacific War started so the kami could bless it." During this time, his grandfather had his wife and children under the care of a Shinto temple. "Truthfully, my life started to get better when I wore it. It's a lifesaver." He chuckles at the last word. "My Jī gave it to me when I was your age. I want to repeat the tradition."
He raised all three of us effortlessly, internalised his morals into our cultures — one of the reasons why Aunt Marlene developed feelings.
I remember the day perfectly: it was in the afternoon. Five-year-old me was in the Manor's library, drifting to sleep. Grandma routinely read me a book about tales. The colossal doors groaned open. Aunt Marlene entered and nattered to the bedazzled newcomer.
Grandma cleared her throat. Her daughter twirled. Her left arm was in a sling — a horse-riding accident. An assassinating gunshot fired in the stables, the Clybornes' failed intentions.
Her mother arched a stern brow. 'You are interrupting my time with my grandson.'
I scrutinised the visitor. One would be affrighted. The no-vent suit and flat-front pants effectuated little to cloak his stalwart, brawny physique coloured in an adroit aura, taller than his soon-to-be-boss. The white shirt highlighted marks of his pendulum beneath. His dark-brown and jet-like hair, lustrous and smooth, nearly ruffled to his shoulders in a bro flow.
His warm, amiable eyes collided with my adolescent inquisitiveness. He softly smiled.
'Who is that?' I mumbled, eyelids drooping.
Grandma observed the muscles and straightened her posture. 'Yes. Who is this?'
'This is Lin Takada. He might be the Head of our Security. If he is willing to, of course.'
In German, 'That man you met at the ball?'
Lin was not unfazed at the foreign words, as if he didn't mind. He swiftly observed the library, amazed.
Aunt Marlene oddly flushed. 'Yes.' She revisited the man. 'Mr Takada—' His strict gaze snapped to hers instantly '—this is my mother, Sandra Everston, and this is my youngest nephew, Derek, Luke's brother who you just met in the dining hall.'
Lin stepped forward and shook our hands. 'Pleasure to meet you,' he said, his accent quite thick at this period.
'I'm just giving him a tour,' said Aunt Marlene. 'Continue on with — mother, he is sleeping!'
Grandma looked down. We were on a sofa, snuggled in a blanket. Her arm cradled me, my face sandwiched to her side, and indeed, I was almost in a locked slumber. 'If you sleep now, you won't at night!"
I jolted. 'W—what?'
'Derek, let's get you in bed,' insisted Aunt Marlene.
'No, tell me what happened to Hermann,' I whined and patted the page.
'You barely have your eyes open, darling. Why are you so tired?'
'He drank juice,' said Grandma, 'and scrambled the corridors like that blue hedgehog.'
'I'm not sleepy.' I forced my eyes to widen. 'See? I'm awa—' I yawned.
I heard a masculine chuckle.
Grandma closed the book. 'Bed it is.'
Aunt Marlene peered at her sprained arm, and then at her mother.
'Don't look at me. I'd fall to my death!'
'Mother, please.'
'My boy is getting heavy.'
'He is not.'
'I said I'd fall to my death for a reason. I am old, and not as strong as I once was.'
'Where is the Staff?'
'Ramona left to fetch tea.'
'Allow me.'
The women were too engrossed in the exchange, they utterly forgot the visitor.
Aunt Marlene flinched and spiralled to him. 'No need, Mr Takada—'
'Oh, just let the gentleman do it,' ridiculed Grandma.
Aunt Marlene appeared like she wanted to fire a glare but sheepishly smiled at her soon-to-be employee. 'Thank you, Mr Takada.'
Grandma suddenly and blatantly asked, 'Do you have children, young man?'
'No,' he replied candidly. 'I am not really interested in being a father.'
'A partner?'
'Mother, be quiet,' scolded her daughter in German.
Grandma waved a dismissive hand. 'Shush, shush. Well, Mr Takada?'
'I am also not interested in relationships.'
Lin never planned on settling down. It never fascinated him. When he met Aunt Marlene, it changed.
'Hmm,' hummed Grandma, her gaze shimmered. 'Interesting.'
Lin straightforwardly raised me. I didn't protest. My head lolled on his shoulder. His arms encircled my waist, mine locked his strong neck. Aunt Marlene led him to my room, and he cautiously buckled a knee on the mattress, lowered me into the softness.
In the present, the pendulum ignites.
Lin gently cups my nape and presses our forehead together. "Otōsan ni musuko."
Father to son.
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