Her Name is Haraherashi

Haraherashi is a cat.

It was my mother who gave a name to that cat that would drift up to our back door. Because she was always hungry, she called her "Haraherashi" (Hungry One). It was a bit too literal, and honestly, a rather pathetic name.

However, as I was still a child back then, I didn't realize the meaning behind the name. Was it the name of some stylish foreign city, or perhaps a magic spell? I was captivated by its mysterious sound—a name that made you want to say it out loud. Haraherashi, Haraherashi.

“Scritch, scratch...”

When the sound of claws came from the back door, my mother would mutter something like, “Oh, it’s been a while,” and open the door. Then, saying, “Just a little bit, okay?” she would put fish skins she had saved or rice scraped from the rice cooker onto a paper plate and set it on the stone steps outside the kitchen.

This was over thirty years ago, in a rural town. It wasn't exactly a commendable act, but perhaps because my mother was born and raised in a port town, she felt a sense of closeness to stray cats. She would never turn away anyone who came to her hungry.

By the way, there was another Haraherashi inside the house who would scratch at the refrigerator door whenever she had a spare moment. That was me, the kitchen wanderer who grew up with gluttony as my companion.

My mother would always give me plenty to eat whenever I was hungry, but snacks were a different story. Unlike Haraherashi, who could get anything unconditionally, I had clear rules set by my mother.

Once a day, either ice cream or juice, but only one. For the Yamazaki Swiss Roll, only one slice.

Do you know the Yamazaki Swiss Roll? To my young self, it was the pinnacle of snacks, an object of longing. The smooth, flawless cream and the sponge cake that exuded a sense of luxury were irresistible. It was the prince of the fresh pastry world, which should have been an extraordinary treat, yet it lay casually in the supermarket, accessible even to those who weren't royalty. Once you knew how delicious it was, you were hooked. Yamazaki is truly a sinful manufacturer.

That noble flavor was certainly worth only one slice. It was a rule I fully accepted as the order of the world.

And yet, it happened. A major incident that disrupted the order of the world.

It was, if I recall, a summer morning. When I went to the kitchen, still sleepy, my mother, who should have been preparing breakfast, was nowhere to be seen. Was she still asleep? Wondering, "I guess things like this happen," I opened the refrigerator. I was thirsty and wanted some cold barley tea.

Then, just above the door pocket where the barley tea was kept, "something" emitting a dazzling aura winked at me. It was the remainder of the Swiss Roll I had shared a rendezvous with the day before.

The Prince! In a defenseless state, smiling right at me...!

I held my breath and looked around.
My mother, or anyone else, was not waking up.

The Swiss Roll, of which I was always allowed only one slice. It is the same in any world that such a restriction only fans the flames of love and stirs up desire.

My heart pounded deep in my chest.

“You can do it now.”

Was it an angel or a devil that whispered that? Once a dark power surged from the soles of my feet and the top of my head, gathering forcefully in my fingertips, I had no way to resist.

I reached out to the refrigerator, felt the solid, cold texture in my right hand, and quickly closed the door. The Swiss Roll in my palm was much heavier than I had imagined. It was heavy and big. If that was the case, surely eating a little bit wouldn't be found out.

...Go, just do it!

Faster than I could think, my fingers had torn off a piece of the Swiss Roll. The soft, cold cream and sponge crumbs stuck to my fingers. While hurriedly shoving the noble fragment into my mouth so it wouldn't fall to the floor, I opened the refrigerator door again in a rush and returned the Swiss Roll to its original place.

A pleasant sense of fulfillment and an unfamiliar tension rushed through my entire body at once. While savoring the lingering aftertaste of the forbidden in my mouth, I was intoxicated by my bold secret meeting, alone in the quiet kitchen.

"Huh, that's strange. The cross-section that I was sure I cut cleanly with a knife yesterday is all crumbly."

A few dozen minutes later, at the breakfast table. I ate my breakfast with my head bowed, listening to my mother's voice grumbling quite clearly while holding the Swiss roll. I think that morning was my first memory of experiencing what cold sweat felt like.

I had completely messed up. My mind hadn't even thought about cutting it with a knife. Or maybe I had been sloppy in putting it back. I desperately shoveled the tasteless rice into my mouth. The thought that if I were found out, I might never be able to taste a Swiss roll again, left me feeling desperate.

Just then, there was a scratching sound from the back door. When my mother opened the door, Haraheracy was lying there as usual, looking up at her.

"Yes, yes, I have some shishamo tails this morning, don't I?"

My mother gently placed a paper plate down. Haraheracy finished it off as if it were only natural, and left without a sound or a meow.

I felt strangely angry. It's unfair that he only shows up when he feels like it, yet he gets fed whenever he wants. If Haraheracy asked, wouldn't my mother give him as much Swiss roll as he wanted? My cheeks burned with heat, and I directed that heat straight at my mother.

"Isn't that kind of unfair? Haraheracy, I mean!"

A childish, clumsy protest. My mother didn't pay any attention to me at all, saying, "Just eat your breakfast already."

For dinner, we had grilled fish. I crunched and chewed the fish skin, which was usually Haraheracy's job, and swallowed it down. Serves you right. Don't think it'll always be there. I even ate the meat that I usually tend to leave behind. It was exhilarating. However, the skin of the grilled fish was greasy and didn't taste good at all.

🐈

The period during which snack rules are set is surprisingly short. I confess that once I was able to manage my own pocket money, I let loose in quite a wild way. I held hands with a prince from over there, and played tag with a count from over here. After moving out of my parents' house, there were nights when I indulged in extravagant, unrefined feasts, procuring common heroes from convenience stores as my desires dictated. It's a side of me I could never show my mother. Although I naturally calmed down as I got older, I still hide little secrets here and there in my house.

Whenever I want, as much as I want. I used to criticize Haraheracy for being fed without limits like that, but now that I think about it, he was much more straightforward. If his belly is full, that's enough. Humans continue to seek even after being satisfied, and the direction of their seeking is endless. It's quite a troublesome thing. I wish I could drink some of his cat-like composure.

However.

I think it is this very gluttony, which makes me seek even when I am full, that has kept me alive this far. The memories enjoyed under rules, the adventure of that summer morning, and the jealousy—they all continued to connect me as the energy of my own identity. I admire the cat's decisiveness, but the human way of reaching out and recklessly drawing the world toward oneself isn't bad either.

Fun.
Happy.
Sad.
Angry.
Feeling nothing.

No matter the time, the belly gets hungry, and food changes its form each time to accompany life. By reaching out to satisfy ourselves, our days continue.

My eldest son, who has received a gifted education in gluttony from me, also digs his claws in and bravely opens every door he can find.

If you open the cupboard where the adult snacks are kept, you'll find a disorganized formation of stock. If you peek into the trash can, you'll find fresh, brand-new snack wrappers.

Good grief. I'd like to teach him to at least shove the trash to the back so it can't be seen, but that shallow, naive innocence is somehow comical and reliable.

Go on just like that, as far as you can. Before I knew it, I found myself waving a flag in just that way.

Haraheracy, a regular at the back door, eventually stopped showing up. I know for certain that it existed, but its color, size, and cry are all vague and I cannot recall them. Yet, that dignified presence and the sound of its name remain forever. My mouth remembers the comfort of saying the name aloud.

Haraheracy.

Is it because of the impression of that leisurely cat that the name, which I found pathetic and anticlimactic, sounds strangely endearing? Or is it because I, too, am living my days to the fullest as one who shares that name?

Haraheracy, Haraheracy.
I want to call it again and again.

The name is Haraheracy.