1. The Meaning of the Name (10)
The next day, fortunately, the old man opened his eyes. Emma and John rushed to his side.
"Master!"
"Thank goodness, truly thank goodness!"
The old man, momentarily flustered by the two tearing up and hugging him, spoke coldly as he always did.
"How stifling. Get out of the way."
And he coldly pushed the two away.
"Are you hungry? It's a bit late, but shall I prepare dinner?"
"More than that, prepare some water for washing."
"Yes, sir."
As Emma left to fetch the water, a heavy air settled in the room. I stood there blankly, clasping my hands together. The old man merely glanced at me without saying anything in particular. Even John, who had been reading the room, slipped out, claiming he had urgent business.
Even after the two left, I just stood there quietly.
"...A smell."
Then, the old man dropped a remark.
"There's a smell."
"Ah, I'm sorry."
I picked up the tray I had placed on the table. It was the tomato soup I had made the day before.
The old man had said he hated tomatoes, but he also told me that wanting to eat them wasn't a lie. I wanted to believe those words. So, yesterday evening, I went down to the kitchen. To make the tomato soup again. I knew it was a meaningless action, but it was the only thing I could do.
There weren't many ingredients left. I took out all the remaining ingredients and started making the soup. Soon, the soup boiling in the pot was exactly one serving. That was enough. I carefully ladled the soup into a bowl, grabbed a spoon, and headed for the old man's room. I had prepared it so I could serve him this soup when he woke up.
But the soup had already grown cold. Moreover, the soup I had taken a bite of earlier to check its condition tasted terrible. Only then did I realize I had boiled it while out of my right mind, unable to even taste it properly. I hadn't managed to clear it away yet, and thinking it was actually for the best, I picked up the tray and turned around.
"Wait."
But the old man called me to a halt.
"Bring it here."
The old man said that, looking directly at me. Did he know what this was? But I hesitated.
"I'm sorry. This tastes bad. It's gone cold, too."
I couldn't give him something so tasteless. Furthermore, if the old man truly hated tomatoes, I was worried that eating this might make his condition worse.
While I hesitated, the old man personally pulled the small table beside his bed closer. Then he stared at me blankly. I became even more flustered.
"I'll make something else."
"Enough. I'm starving, so anything will do. It will simply whet my appetite, so set it down here."
"But..."
"Why are you hesitating when you once said you made it well? I already know your lie, too."
My lie?
"The lie that you are good at cooking."
That wasn't a lie... But to the picky old man's palate, my skills might have seemed terrible. The old man gestured for me to bring the soup quickly. Even so, when I didn't move, he tried to move his own body, so I had no choice but to set the tray down on the table. When I lifted the cover, the cold soup, lacking in tomatoes, looked unappetizing even to the eye.
But the old man disregarded this and scooped a spoonful of soup into his mouth. My heart grew heavy at the thought that he would get angry as soon as he tasted it. I stood quietly, waiting for him to holler. Yet, instead of a holler, the old man calmly continued to eat the soup.
"Is it delicious?"
"It's tasteless. The most tasteless thing I've ever eaten."
"Then you don't have to eat it."
I quickly held up the cover in my hand. I was going to cover the soup bowl at any moment, but the old man silently scooped up the soup.
"Didn't you make this out of concern for me?"
My anxious fidgeting stopped at those words. The spoon clinked against the bowl.
"One day, my granddaughter made me tomato soup."
The old man looked down at the watery soup.
"It was soup made from tomatoes grown in the small vegetable patch behind the mansion. She said she learned from Emma, and the soup she made clumsily with those little hands tasted terrible. Do you know what I said then?"
At the sudden question, I slowly shook my head. The old man smiled with difficulty.
"I spat out wicked words, asking who would eat such trash."
I swallowed hard. The old man's gaze, directed at the empty air, was traveling back through the years.
"I can never forget the expression my granddaughter made that day. Her face was full of disappointment, looking like she might cry at any moment, but she tried hard to smile for me. She was that kind of child. A child who didn't show it even when hurt."
As if recalling that time, the old man stirred the watery soup. Only then did I realize that the tomato soup the old man had wanted to eat was the soup made from tomatoes grown in the vegetable patch behind the mansion. No, perhaps the old man had wanted to eat the soup his granddaughter had made for him.
"I'm sorry."
That was a dish I could not make for him. It seemed my actions, trying to endear myself to him, had instead made the old man uncomfortable. My heart grew heavy. At that, the old man looked at me.
"What is your name?"
It was the first time the old man asked for my name. I hesitated for a moment before answering.
"I am Raiana Klam."
It was the name of the identity I had chosen from the ones Ethan had provided. I considered giving my real name but ended up stating the name I would have to live under from now on. Looking back, the people here had never asked who I was or what my name was. They would just call me 'Young Lady.' But the corners of the old man's eyes narrowed in dissatisfaction.
"I mean your real name."
"..."
How did he know? Did Ethan tell him? I mumbled awkwardly before reciting softly.
"It's Pola."
"No surname?"
"I have none."
"I see. Pola. Pola."
Hearing the old man call my name felt ticklish and awkward. I scratched the back of my neck.
"Does your name have a meaning?"
"Not particularly..."
It was my first time being asked such a question, so I was a bit flustered. There wasn't any special meaning to it. However, there was a story I had heard. As I hesitated to answer, the old man, noticing my hesitation, asked kindly.
"Tell me."
"...My mother said the circumstances weren't favorable when she gave birth to me."
Like trying to fill a broken water jug, no matter how hard they worked, they couldn't overcome their poverty. A child conceived amidst all that. One day, as her belly swelled day by day, labor pains suddenly began, and my mother, stopping mid-work, supposedly ran into an old stable nearby. She began to give birth with the help of a fellow working woman. But it was a terrible environment to give birth in.
"She said she thought the baby would die soon after it was born. But contrary to her expectations, I was born perfectly fine. My mother, holding me, a newborn, suddenly looked at the wall, and saw dust floating in the stable in the sunlight streaming through the cracks. The baby in her arms was very small, and she thought the life this baby would live wouldn't be much different from that dust. So, abbreviating a life of flying dust, she named me 'Pola.'"
It wasn't exactly a fitting name to give a child, but the life of the child who received that name flowed exactly as her mother had thought. In a way, it was a fitting name. My mother, shedding tears over my father's violence, would look at me sitting huddled in a corner and say with self-mockery—
'Poor wretched girl.'
At that moment, my mother might have been sympathizing with the daughter who would live a life similar to her own.
After telling the story, I realized it wasn't a good one after all. I discreetly observed the old man's mood. He might get angry, saying it was absurd for someone like me to become his granddaughter. However, contrary to my worries, the old man was making a sad expression as he looked at me.
The gaze directed at me felt uncomfortable. I slightly averted my eyes.
The old man pointed to the chair next to the bed.
"Come sit closer."
It was a gentle voice, unlike him. I didn't move and just glanced at the old man. The old man calmly waited for me. I gingerly sat on the chair. I was lowering my head for no reason when the old man suddenly grasped my hand carefully.
"You have suffered a lot."
The hand gently rubbing the back of my hand felt quite warm.
The old man's hands were as wrinkled as the years he had lived. Still, they were larger and rougher than mine.
"It must have been hard. It must have been tough."
"It's alright."
"It's fine. Don't be ashamed. What life isn't tough?"
The old man patted the back of my hand with his other hand. The wrinkles of time remained deeply etched on his hand. Just as there were many wrinkles etched on his hands, many people must have met and left the old man.
"When death approaches, all sorts of thoughts come to mind. I regret the past and resent the present. My mind changes dozens of times a day. Mostly, I end up having wicked thoughts. I'm sorry for making your forehead like that. I didn't have bad intentions."
"It's okay."
"You said you needed the status of my granddaughter."
The old man brought up the problem that had been the beginning of this whole situation. I shook my head with a heavy expression.
"Please don't misunderstand. I didn't come here with that intention from the start. Really."
"Will you not regret it?"
"Pardon?"
"I'm asking if it's okay to live someone else's life instead of your own."
It was a question I had heard several times already. But I felt strange, not expecting the old man to say such a thing.
"It is more than I deserve."
"I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about putting on someone else's life and living it."
"..."
"Will you not regret living a life where you yourself disappear?"
A life where I myself disappear? At that moment, the day I told Emma and John that the old man had a hard time eating came to mind. The moment I recalled my siblings but ultimately couldn't bring myself to speak of them.
It felt like someone had struck the back of my head. Ah, so that's it... So that was the identity of the lingering discomfort in the corner of my heart. I would live under a different status, but that would never be 'me'. I could no longer become the person known as 'me'. I hadn't thought about it in detail. I had just vaguely assumed I would live under a new identity while receiving aristocratic education. But looking at my face, the old man brought this up as if pointing out the part I had missed.
"From now on, you will be called by another person's name, live their life, be remembered as them, and your original self will disappear forever from this world. If you like tomatoes, but the identity you put on hates tomatoes, you will no longer be able to enjoy eating tomatoes in front of others. That is what it means to live as someone else. The person who departed isn't the pitiful one. The pitiful one is the person who cannot live as 'themselves'."
The old man said so with a truly regretful expression.
"Think about it carefully. Whether such a life is truly okay."