I Want to Eat Your Pancreas

by Yoru Sumino

  “I’m on board with your plan and this train. I’m just taking a long hard look at myself.”

  “Don’t be so depressing. This is a trip. You’ve got to cheer up!”

  “I’d say this is less a trip and more like an abduction.”

  “Instead of looking at yourself,” she said, “you should look at me.”

  I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She seemed to decide on ignoring that. Finished with her bento meal, she put the lid back on and slipped a rubber band around the plastic container to keep it closed. Her brisk movements seemed very alive.

  I didn’t feel like remarking on the difference between the vibrant image she projected and the reality underneath. Instead, I quietly ate the orange one wedge at a time. The fruit was surprisingly sweet and delicious for something bought at a train station kiosk. I looked out my window and saw an unfamiliar vista of wide open, rural countryside. A scarecrow stood in one of the fields. I don’t know why, but at that moment, I decided that, if I’d already chosen to come on the trip, there was no point in continuing to fight it.

  She was reading up on local specialties in a travel magazine when she suddenly asked, “By the way, [Boy I’m Getting along With]-kun, what’s your first name?”

  Gazing at the wooded mountains in the distance had put me in a tranquil mood, so I answered without any fuss. My name isn’t particularly unusual, but she nodded her head several times with deep interest. Softly, she said my full name to herself.

  Then she said, “Isn’t there an author with a name like yours?”

  “Yeah,” I answered, “although I don’t know which one you’re thinking of.”

  Both my family name and my given name were similar to that of one of two novelists.

  She asked, “Is that why you like reading so much?”

  “Yes and no. It’s why I started reading, but I like reading because I enjoy it.”

  “Is your favorite writer one with your name?”

  “No. My favorite is Dazai Osamu.”

  When I said the name of a great literary master, the girl’s eyes widened with some surprise. “Isn’t that the guy who wrote No Longer Human?”

  “That’s him.”

  “That book is kind of dark, isn’t it? Is that what you like?”

  “It’s true that Dazai’s brooding nature comes through in the novel’s atmosphere, but I don’t know if I would simply call it dark.”

  For once I was speaking with excitement, but she pouted her lips in disinterest and said, “Hmmm, well, it still doesn’t sound like something I want to read.”

  “You don’t seem that interested in reading books at all.”

  “Yeah, not really. I read manga, though.”

  I’d figured as much. Not in a judgmental way; I just couldn’t picture her sitting still long enough to read a novel. Even when she read manga in her room, I imagined she did so moving around and making verbal reactions through the whole thing.

  Seeing little point in talking about a topic that didn’t interest her, I instead asked a question that was on my mind.

  “It must have been some trick getting your parents to let you go on this trip. How’d you pull it off?”

  “I told them I was going with Kyōko. If I tell my parents it’s something I want to do before I die, they’ll get all teary and will pretty much let me do anything. But a trip with a boy… They just wouldn’t understand.”

  “That’s low, taking advantage of your parents’ emotions like that.”

  “How about you?” she asked. “What excuse did you give your parents?”

  “They think I have friends. I’ve been lying to them about not having any so they won’t worry about me. I told them I’m staying at a friend’s house tonight.”

  “That’s low, and sad, too.”

  “It’s not hurting anyone. You could at least give me credit for that.”

  She shook her head with exasperation and took out a magazine from the backpack at her feet. I didn’t think that was a fair way to act when, by instigating this trip, she was the one who put me in the position of having to deceive my parents, whom I loved very much. Anyway, with her opening a magazine, I saw my chance to retrieve a paperback from my school bag. The morning, as turbulent as it was unusual, had exhausted me, and I focused myself on the story to find some relief.

  As soon as I opened the book, I immediately suspected her inevitable intrusion upon my peace and quiet. I now inhabited a constant state of suspicion, though whose fault that was I won’t say. Contrary to my premonition, this valuable personal time passed by without disruption, and it was only when I reached a stopping place that I realized I’d obtained a precious, tranquil hour of reading. I looked to my side and saw her blissfully sleeping with the magazine against her stomach.

  I looked at her face in slumber and saw nothing of the illness that lurked inside. I got the notion to write on her face with a marker but decided to spare her.

  She didn’t wake up before our bullet train reached our destination, and she didn’t wake up once we got there, either.

  I don’t mean to suggest her short life had expired on the train that day, she simply was in a deep sleep. Please try not to jump to such an inauspicious conclusion.

  I gently pinched her cheek and her nose, but she mumbled something unintelligible and didn’t wake. As a last resort, I smacked her on the back of her hand with a rubber eraser, and she leaped to her feet in comical overreaction.

  She shouted, “How about you try calling my name first!”

  She punched my shoulder.

  Can you believe that? After I did her the favor of waking her up.

  Luckily this was the train’s last stop, and we were able to leisurely collect our belongings and disembark.

  “We made it!” she said. “Wow! I can smell the ramen already.”

  “I’m pretty sure you’re just imagining that.”

  “No, I’m sure of it. Has your nose gone bad?”

  Not too harshly, I said, “Hey, at least my mind hasn’t gone bad like yours.”

  “Actually, it’s my pancreas that’s gone bad.”

  “That’s a dirty trick. You can’t play that card to win every time. It’s not fair.”

  She laughed and said, “If you don’t like it, you should come up with your own.”

  I wasn’t planning on getting an incurable disease in the near future, so I politely declined.

  We rode a long escalator down from the railway platform and emerged onto a wide corridor lined with gift shops and waiting areas. The space was pleasant, with that crisp cleanliness of a newly constructed building (whether the space was, in fact, a new addition or not, I didn’t know).

  A second escalator took us to ground level, where we finally passed through the exit turnstiles. In that moment, I experienced something that left me shaken and questioning my senses. Just as my companion had said, I could smell the ramen. If this smell was real, then what did that mean for other prefectures known for their local cuisine? Did one smell like tonkatsu sauce, and another like udon noodles? Lacking the necessary travel experience, I couldn’t deny the notion outright, but I still found it hard to believe a single food dish could so thoroughly seep its way into daily life.

  Without looking, I could perfectly imagine my classmate’s smug grin. I made a conscious decision not to confirm it.

  “So,” I said, “where to?”

  “Mhm,” she said with a knowing cackle. How annoying. “Where to? We’re going to visit the shrine of the god of education. But first, we need lunch.”

  Now that she mentioned it, I was getting hungry.

  She said, “I was thinking the obvious—ramen.”

  “No objection here,” I replied.

  I followed her as she walked briskly through the bustling train station. She seemed to know right where she was going; she must have decided on a restaurant from the magazine she read on the bullet train. We took a staircase down which led directly to an u
nderground mall. The signature aroma of ramen grew stronger as we walked down the stairs. Sooner than I expected, we were standing in front of the restaurant. It wasn’t the most glamorous location, and I started to question if this was the right choice, but I saw a page from a famous gourmet manga in which the restaurant had been featured taped to the wall. I felt reassured we weren’t going into some sketchy place.

  The ramen was delicious. Our orders came out quickly, and we greedily devoured the noodles and soup. We both took advantage of the option to order a second helping, and when the waitress asked how we wanted our noodles, my companion said, “Like metal wire,” I politely went along with the gag. No one needs to know how embarrassed I became when that turned out to be an actual way people could order noodles. When the stiff noodles came, I imagined the cooking process must have been something like cutting kneaded wheat flour into thin strips and splashing them with hot water.

  Fortified by our meal, we went straight back into the station and boarded a local train. The shrine where the god of education resided was only about thirty minutes away. We had no need to rush, but she was running this expedition, and if she said to hurry, I hurried.

  On the train, I recalled something I once read. My lips tight, I said, “This is a dangerous prefecture—we’d better be careful. I heard they have shootings here.”

  “Really?” she said. “That can happen anywhere. Take that murder just a prefecture away from ours.”

  “I noticed they dropped it from the news.”

  “I saw an interview with a policeman on TV,” she said. “He said random killers are the hardest to catch. Isn’t there a saying about how weeds grow faster than grass?”

  “I think a murderer is on a different level.”

  She grinned and said, “I guess that saying also explains why you’ll survive and I’ll die.”

  “You know, I just realized something. You can’t trust a proverb.”

  Thirty minutes later, we arrived at our destination. The sky was clear when I could have used a few clouds to turn away the sun’s heat. Even just standing there was making me vaguely sweaty. Up until this point, I’d thought I may get away without a change of clothes, but now Uniqlo was looking like a better idea.

  “What beautiful weather!” she said. It was hard to say which was beaming more, her face, or the sun. With a buoyant step, she climbed the sloped, pedestrian-only street leading up to the shrine. The pilgrimage road was more crowded than I’d expected for a weekday afternoon. The street—lined on both sides by souvenir shops, various other stores, restaurants, and even one place that sold oddball T-shirts—offered no shortage of interesting sights. The shops selling a local bean cake snack particularly caught my eye, and my nose, as well.

  Occasionally, one or another of the stores lured my companion in. We didn’t end up buying anything, but the storekeepers didn’t expect us to anyway, so we were able to browse without feeling uncomfortable about it.

  Sweating, we reached the top of the road leading to the shrine grounds, where the first thing we did was buy drinks from a vending machine. Purchasing from a vending machine that had been so insidiously placed to guarantee a sale, I felt the sting of defeat, but the primal urge to quench my thirst superseded all reason.

  She tousled her sweat-streaked hair and grinned. “This is the spring of life!”

  “There’s nothing like spring about this. It’s too hot.”

  “Have you ever played sports?”

  “Nope,” I replied. “We of noble birth don’t need to exert ourselves.”

  “Noble, riiight. You should exercise more. You’re as sweaty as I am, and I’m sick.”

  “I don’t think a lack of exercise has anything to do with it.”

  All around us were people sitting in clusters beneath the trees and seeking refuge in their shade. It wasn’t just me—the day was especially hot.

  Thanks to our refreshments and our youth, we overcame our dehydration and set forth again. We washed our hands at the purification fountain, placed our palms on the hot metal of an ox statue, crossed a bridge over a pond where turtles swam, and finally arrived before the god of the shrine. A stone plaque explained the story behind the ox statue’s presence on the shrine grounds, but in the heat, I forgot what it said. My companion never read it in the first place.

  I stood in front of the offertory box where the god’s money was kept, put in a meager offering, and announced my presence with the customary two bows, two claps, and a third bow.

  I read somewhere that shrines weren’t places for praying for a wish to be granted; the point was to declare one’s determination to the god. But I wasn’t determined to do anything at the moment. Since I had to pray about something, I thought I’d help the girl standing next to me. Pretending not to know any better, I prayed to the god for a wish.

  May her pancreas be healed.

  I noticed she was taking more time with her prayer than I had. It must be easier to pray for something when you know it won’t come true. Maybe she was praying for something else, but I didn’t feel like asking her. Prayers should be quietly and privately offered.

  When she finished, she said, “I prayed I would be able to stay active until I die. What did you pray for?”

  I sighed. “You always have to crush my expectations.”

  She gasped. “You prayed for me to get weak and infirm? How terrible! I thought you were better than that.”

  “Why would I wish for something bad to happen?”

  My prayer had been for the exact opposite of what she’d guessed, but I didn’t tell her. Anyway, wasn’t this shrine for the god of education? Then again, a god wouldn’t sweat the details.

  Then she said, “Hey, let’s go get our fortunes!”

  I frowned with my eyebrows. A fortune seemed incompatible with her fate; fortunes tell of the future, but she had none.

  She trotted over to the counter where the fortunes were sold and dropped a hundred-yen coin into the offering box without skipping a beat. She then drew her number and found the small wooden drawer with the matching fortune. I followed suit out of obligation.

  She said, “The winner is the one with the best fortune.”

  “What do you think fortunes are supposed to be about?” I asked.

  “Ah!” she exclaimed. “I got a ‘great blessing.’”

  Fortunes could fall into categories ranging from great blessing to great curse. She looked happy, while on the inside, I was dumbstruck. What could the god have been thinking? If I ever needed proof that fortunes were nonsense, here it was. Or maybe this unexpected blessing was an act of kindness from a charitable deity.

  She burst into loud laugher. “Look at this, look at this! It says my sickness will soon heal. As if!”

  I eventually recovered from my stunned silence and said, “I’m glad you’re enjoying this.”

  “What did you get?” she asked.

  “Blessing.”

  “That comes below small blessing, right?”

  “Sometimes it’s below great blessing. I think it depends on the shrine.”

  “Either way, I win. Ha ha!”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” I repeated.

  She pointed at my fortune and said, “Look, it says you’ll find a suitable marriage partner. Isn’t that nice.”

  “If you really think it’s nice, you could sound a little more sincere about it.”

  She tilted her head, leaned in close, and snickered at me. Caught off guard, I thought, If she kept her mouth closed, she’d be kind of cute, and in that moment, I knew I’d utterly lost this round.

  I averted my eyes and heard her chuckle, but she didn’t say anything more.

  We left the courtyard of the shrine’s sanctuary and went back the way we came. When we reached the bridge, we turned left instead of crossing and came upon the treasure hall and a second pond, this one called the Iris Pond. A great number of turtles were swimming, so I bought turtle food from a nearby stand and proceeded to toss it into the w
ater. Watching the turtles’ leisurely movements, the day seemed to feel a little less hot. While I was absorbed in feeding the turtles, a small girl asked something to my companion, who responded with a pleasant smile. Again, I found myself thinking she was my polar opposite.

  “Are you two in love?” the girl had asked.

  “No, we’re getting along,” my classmate answered, to the little girl’s confusion.

  Once I’d finished feeding the turtles, we walked down a narrow path running along the pond’s edge before reaching a little restaurant, an old one-story building with an out-of-place concrete façade. She suggested we go inside, so we did. When the air conditioning hit us, we let out a relaxed sigh in unison. Three other parties occupied tables in the spacious interior: a family, a dignified-looking elderly couple, and a somewhat unruly quartet of middle-aged ladies. We sat at a low table by the window.

  Soon after we sat, a genial elderly woman came and filled our glasses with water before taking our order.

  My companion said, “We’ll each have an umegae mochi, and tea for me.” She glanced to me and asked, “You want tea, too?”

  I nodded, and the old woman went back to the kitchen with a friendly smile.

  As I drank my cold water, I felt my body cool all the way to my fingertips. It felt nice.

  I asked, “So those sweets I saw on the road are called umegae mochi, then?”

  “They’re a local specialty. I read about them in my guide book.”

  The elderly server returned with two red rectangular trays, each bearing a sweet bean cake and a cup of green tea. “Sorry for the wait,” the old woman said, despite there having been no wait at all. Apparently, the policy was to pay up front, so we each handed over our share in coins.

  The round, white dumplings were crisp on the outside. Judging from the speed with which they came, the restaurant must have cooked them constantly throughout the day, rather than made-to-order. I took a bite and found it generously stuffed with sweet, slightly salty red bean paste. It was very good, and the green tea matched it well.

  “Yum!” my classmate said. “I bet you’re glad you came with me now.”

  “Only a little bit.”