Chapter 2 Growing Up

It's hard to describe everyday life, but anime and manga make everyday life interesting. But when you live it, many details of everyday life stupidly elude your attention, pass by in the background, do not enter your consciousness. You only know that there is a refrigerator in the kitchen, for example, or that there are spoons and forks in the table drawer. I think you know what I'm talking about. So, for the first time since I woke up, I was in a state of near sensory shock. The thing is, I was never Asian! Japanese life is torture for the European mind in a particularly sophisticated form. When I watched anime, read manga and so on, I didn't see everything I had to dive into without preparation.

I think it's worth starting with the difference in... everything! For example, how do the Japanese wash and bathe? When we wash in the bathroom and everyone gets water for themselves, in this country it is customary to wash first and then enjoy the hot water. Why is that? And it's simple: there are stupidly few sources of fresh water in Japan. That's it. It was wild for me, and I am sure they would have suspected something if I, a three-year-old boy named Arata Miyazaki, had not been accompanied everywhere by nannies. My adult self was drooling over the anime perfect figures of Japanese women who undress in the bathroom in all the works, even when they came to rub OYASH's back. I hoped so, and my hopes were justified. For the first time, a young woman named Miyuki-san was in the bathroom with me. I wouldn't say she was a beauty, but she wasn't scary either. And it was in the bathroom that I realized the meaning of the word "bummer". She turned out to have a completely boyish figure, meaning narrow hips, a very small butt, thin, unattractive legs, and no breasts. I was very, very sad, but hoping for the best. By the way, my sad state was explained by the serious consequences of the injury (what kind of injury they are silent about) and I need time. A week later my hope faded a lot, and a month later I said goodbye to it, and probably as a defense mechanism my brain gave away the memory of the gorgeous figures of northern women — tall blondes, with amazing data. Well, a person needs a dream to live. And in the bathrooms I simply stopped paying attention to these women, because even the most curvaceous ones turned out to be stupidly plump, which made their breasts sag, and the desire to look at anything else disappeared instantly. Even vague hints of thoughts appeared, but I only understood their direction much later, when I grew up.

The rituals of eating, speaking, talking, and literally everything else here fell under a certain code of conduct that EVERYONE followed! And even though I quickly found out that I lived in a very unusual family, it did not change anything because in Japan it is customary to behave in a certain way. Just the suffixes "-san", "-chan", "-sama" and others, what are they worth?! In short, it was very difficult and mentally difficult. Yes, and it was just lonely, but I realized that much later.

But time went by, I got involved, and gradually I lost the habit of comparing everything. And when I finally did, I realized that there was no such abyss as I had imagined. Anime shows a lot about Japanese life, but keeps even more hidden. In fact, the same people live here, and the fact that they have developed their own standards of behavior is what makes people and cultures different from others, and that's what makes them interesting. Eating with chopsticks? Well, not from restaurant plates, which are not very comfortable, but from specially made bowls and cups. And the rice here is not the same at all, and you can really fill up on it. Well, the fact that women aren't anime at all... I don't want to get used to that, I have completely different tastes, and my ex-girlfriend Maria (she loved to be called that) is proof of that. Tall, with double breasts, a beautiful round ass and strong slender legs, mischievous honey eyes and a short, messy haircut. Eh, a cool girl, and she was really waiting for me — my friends never talked about suspicions (we agreed on this topic with them, I know, it's not very nice, but I had to be sure, because I wanted to get married immediately after the army). I hope she will be happy — she deserves it.

After half a year of living in a child's body, I managed to overhear a conversation that made me think a lot. Two women working at the mansion were discussing how the young master (that's what they call me here) had changed dramatically after a certain Jirou-sama almost killed him. Then they started telling each other how it happened. In short, a child was playing in some hall, the child was not yet three years old, and then this Jiro-sama, one of the elders of the clan, came in, and out of nowhere he hit the child with a backhand. The little body was blown into the flimsy wall, and the bastard went about his business with a calm gait. Next came the treatment phase, but as it turned out, the head of the clan spoke in the spirit that if he didn't die, he would be a worthy warrior of the clan, like a test of the Kami — the local gods — who carried out their will with the old asshole's hand. I even remembered modern churchmen, accustomed to talking utter nonsense, saying that if you are hit by a car, you should rejoice at the test of higher powers, and it is in your own interest to forgive the drunken major so as not to take a sin on your soul. My friends and I once beat up a drunken priest and burned his Lexus, oh, how the prostitutes he drove with screamed...

In short, I've been digesting what I've heard for a long time, trying to understand it all and build my own line of behavior, because you can't really fight in a three-year-old body. Meanwhile, my daily routine has changed. I had my first lessons with old men who always behaved as if each of them was no worse than Aristotle and Lao Tzu put together. Very unpleasant people. But they did teach interesting things. It started with drawing: a dry, arrogant grandfather taught me to paint with different brushes in the national Japanese style. It was difficult, my hands did not obey and hurt terribly, for many months I heard only reproaches and humiliations addressed to me (they are cool at raising children, right?). I didn't even notice how things began to work for me, only the women's conversations I overheard (this became one of my favorite activities, because they didn't take me with other children, and no one talked to me just for fun — only about business). They said that my latest drawings were no worse than those on the interior panels, and that the fame of a traditional artist would most likely await me. So I decided to look at my scribbles and compare them with the old ones. I was amazed again — I really couldn't believe I was drawing it myself. I also noticed that my arms no longer hurt, and my hands and fingers flexed as if there were no bones in them — just soft cartilage. It was wonderful. The master, seeing my reaction, smiled for the first time and said that this was exactly what he had been waiting for — my awareness, and now we would move to a new level of complexity and begin to teach calligraphy. This is at six years old. It is worth adding that along the way I had classes in gymnastics, the basics of etiquette (the simplest, most inconspicuous), I was taught to read and write. Again, I seemed to see a lot of people around me, but there was no one from the family — only maids and teachers. No children. In the mansion I was kept in several rooms, and even on the street I was only allowed into a small courtyard, although there is a big garden here somewhere, but I did not see it.

The training went on constantly, I even had to sleep as usual, and not on my stomach as I was used to. But it's worth mentioning that it was damn interesting. From one lesson to another, something changed, gradually, imperceptibly, but the effect was noticeable. I learned hieroglyphics, developed my body, learned to sit on my feet, chew and speak properly at the table. My paintings came out in such a way that even the master frowned and said (he was the only one who said this and showed rude concern) that I could ALREADY make money with them. He predicted that if I was not lazy, I could become a master of calligraphy in ten years. It was flattering, I was proud of myself, it warmed my soul, because everyone around me behaved like a kind of robot — they played a role, a program, and only away from me did they come to life again to some extent. I had to behave accordingly, because it's not good, it's stupidly embarrassing to respond with a good attitude to those who don't care about the child — they only need to make money.

I was also proud of my newfound beauty. I was learning. I learned to turn anger and resentment toward insensitive people into my own pride, pride in my successes in the classroom. Even the lessons of local magic did not excite me; I saw them as another path to success and pride in myself. I looked at the servants, at their figures and faces, compared them to myself (why separate my "I" from my new body?), and I had another reason to be proud of myself and to thank the chance that brought my soul here. First of all, everyone here has Japanese eyes, i.e. narrow, and many of them look puffy and swollen. Nature rewarded me with wide-open, lilac-colored, almond-shaped eyes. The features are thin, but not feminine — it was immediately clear that I was not a girl, although children of this age are sometimes confused. It's too early to judge the rest. But I have hope because I am actively involved in gymnastics. I tried to control my behavior and reactions so as not to burn myself out, but the child's body did everything for me, and I behaved according to my age, adjusted to harsh upbringing and traditionalism.

At the age of six, as soon as I received praise from the master, I was called to the head of the Miyazaki clan for the first time. This can be called an EVENT, because I have not seen any of my relatives for more than three years. I don't even know the names of the parents of this incarnation (I decided to call myself that, otherwise the corpse is kind of insulting), not to mention the rest. In short, the maids showed up, dressed me in a bunch of "robes," and took me somewhere outside the territory where they kept me. Another fact: During my whole stay here I was hardly touched, only when they helped me in the bath. But I read in this life that a child needs hugs, touches, etc., so that there are no various phobias, complexes and mental disorders in the future.

In general, I walk behind the maid, another one follows me, a convoy. In short, I walk along the wooden veranda-passage that surrounds all the buildings, thinking about great things, and nothing else: how to get real sweets, and not what you get here, because since childhood, that childhood, I adore halva with cold milk, and I've really managed to miss this dish. So, thinking about lofty topics, I turn the corner of a large building and see the Great Garden. It could not be anything else. I stared at it and slowed down noticeably. Let's start with the fact that the opposite side of the garden is about a hundred and fifty meters away, no less. The entire rectangular area is filled with lone trees and massive boulders scattered here and there. At first glance, it is chaos, but after a few seconds, the eye already detects the presence of some kind of system, probably difficult to understand, because I did not understand it. Continue. Bushes and flowers are also present, but they are placed so carefully that they only emphasize the overall picture, "covering" the voids and somewhere enhancing the effect of the openwork arbours. The pavilions were placed on hilly islands, in the middle of small ponds connected by narrow arteries of streams. The rustle and splash of flowing water, the splash of fish, the chirping of birds in the branches of the trees, a light breeze shaking the branches. I really wanted to walk on the red humpbacked bridges over the streams, on the paths paved with river stones. A wonderful place, emotive. Why wasn't I allowed to come here before? Here all stress disappears instantly, and meditating here is a joy. However, I felt someone pushing me from behind.

— Young Master, they're waiting for you, you can't stay! — The woman's voice was strange: ingratiation, tension, displeasure. Unpleasant.

I just nodded and continued on my way, still under the impression that I was not paying attention to something scratching somewhere inside. It was only much later, after I had learned more about local etiquette and relationship norms, that I realized that this woman's behavior was offensive to someone who could be called "young master. She could only bow, point with her hands where to go, ask but not push, and raise her voice. I didn't know this then, so I obediently walked forward, never taking my eyes off the garden — when will I have the chance to see it again? And then I saw something else that interested me greatly. The trees blocked it from my view, but as I walked around them, I saw a simple bench on which a woman with long black hair was sitting, wearing a pale blue yukata. Behind her, a few steps away, stood two women dressed as servants. But they were of no interest to me. All my attention was captured by the woman on the bench looking out at the garden. I walked slowly, looking at the woman all the time — there was something unusual about her that was not present in any of the people around me. This is not the presence of magic — I have already learned to sense it in people and animals, I have learned to distinguish the ungifted, the simpleton, from the magician, or the one in whom magic is small or dormant. It is difficult for someone with magic to learn this, but it is possible. And I felt that I needed it. I couldn't tear myself away from her, we had almost passed her when the woman shivered almost imperceptibly and somehow turned around jerkily. I almost stumbled when I met eyes exactly like mine, deep lilac. Only her eyes were filled with indifference, emptiness, coldness. But it took her a moment to recognize me, to come to life, to open her mouth, to put her hands over her mouth to stop her from screaming. She stood up and looked at me without taking her hands from her face. I don't forget my parents from that life, but I don't deny the relationship here either, because everyone needs roots. And then one look into her eyes was enough to make me understand. I stopped and turned to her. I don't care about everything and everyone, I have to talk to her! I walked toward her, and she walked toward me. But we were prevented: the guards grabbed my arms, and the reluctant six-year-old was dragged away, while the woman in the pale blue yukata remained in the garden, held by her guards. A few minutes later, I was led into a half-empty room with several old men.

There was discord in my soul, my blood was boiling, I wanted to become hysterical and rush to that woman. I was shaking violently, and I felt heat in my body and an unpleasant pulling weight in my stomach. In the background of all this, the arrogant faces of the assembled old men and women caused not only irritation, no, — dull hatred for those who did not allow even a word to be exchanged with their real relatives for all these years. I understood then that these old men controlled the clan, and the fate of many people, including mine, was in their hands. Therefore, they were extremely disgusting to me. And their twisted grimaces when they looked at me, or their demonstrative arrogant coldness, made me want to hang these fossils on the nearest branch.

According to etiquette, I had to bow deeply to show respect, and so on, the Japanese generally like to bow. I'm a free man, not a slave to be thrown at everyone's feet. All the clan elders received was the same frank examination of each one; at the sight of some, I deliberately curled my lips in response to similar grimaces. The first to collapse was the small, fat woman in a pink kimono.

— And why, one wonders, does the clan pay teachers so much money if this little brat can't even say hello properly?! — The grandmother made a toad-like face and turned to the other grandmother, who had dried up like a mummy.

The mummy had no time to answer, just opened her mouth when a tall old man with a thin beard and mustache spoke.

— They told me that you, Arata-kun, are doing well in your studies. Why don't we see the customary greeting from you? — The old man sat in the middle, and his dark eyes, hidden behind thick gray eyebrows, sparkled with self-confident strength.

I really didn't know what to say. Well, let's not say that I really didn't like their "one hundred and older" group at first glance? Many thoughts were spinning in my head, panic prevailed, and then suddenly, from somewhere in my memory, the phrase appeared: "It's better to be silent than to say stupid things". I'm not sure if I remembered it correctly, but this memory allowed me to overcome the panic and follow a reasonable thought — to remain silent. And to be honest, what can a six-year-old child do? What can narcissistic old people say that will at least be listened to the end? That's right, nothing. I have seen this more than once, because I have lived among people: when a person grows old, he is deeply convinced that everyone is obliged to listen to him and to obey him. Often this is not based on anything, it just happens — being old means being wise. But that's not true, because most people are still the same fools they were when they were fifteen, they just have more worldly experience, that's all. So I try to treat old people neutrally, and only later decide for myself if there is something to respect about them. And here I am, six years old, and I can't even ignore them, because these mummies can think of anything. In short, I lowered my eyes to the ground and remained silent. There was silence for a while and I looked at the floor. Then the old man chuckled and spoke in a satisfied voice:

— It's good that you understand your mistakes, your teachers were right about you. The clan chief thought for a moment, or pretended to. —The elders and I wanted to praise you for your diligence and success. — Now, you have questioned our conclusions, and it is inappropriate for the elders of a respected clan to offer unfounded praise. — The head fell silent again for a while, looking at the child in front of him. He wanted the child to bow before him, as expected, but the grandson did not move during the entire speech. Well, apparently the blood is showing, but it's not scary — a few years and the teachers will beat the disobedience out of him. — Since this has happened, then the conversation with you is reduced to news: in a week you will begin new lessons, including in Kenjutsu. I hope you will show zeal and prove that respected people do not waste their time. That's it, the audience is over. — The old man waved his hand imperiously, and it was difficult not to understand his gesture.

Without making him wait, I leave the room in the same way I'm used to: I turned over my left shoulder and walked out with a steady step. I heard the hissing of the old men, but I didn't care about their wishes and demands — I wasn't going to back down, let alone bow. My teeth were beginning to ache from this relic of the past.