A Yakuza In The Pasture

It is noon. And of course, I am already running late. The milking of the cows? Not begun. The other chores? Still there, smiling and mocking, as if to say: “Hello, we’ve been waiting for you since dawn, you sluggard.” The milk truck has gone by without stopping, like an ex pretending not to see you in the street. “What rotten luck,” I mutter through clenched teeth, all the while wondering whether a cow might fall into depression. Spoiler: I can. It has been a month since my father… shall we say, made a final decision. Not an accident, not an illness. No, he quite simply chose to leave the game. His parting gift? A letter. Laden with remorse. And, as a small bonus: a mountain of debt. Charming, isn’t it? Barely an hour after the funeral, I already had my boots in the muck, cleaning out the stable as if nothing had happened. It’s remarkable, the ease with which life forces you back into line. No mourning, no respite—just a shovel and some hay. I, who had sworn—sworn never to set foot here again… found myself neck-deep in rural life, milking cows, forgetting even the faintest trace of the life I once had. And yes, my life in Paris was anything but glamorous. Waitress in a cocktail bar, paid a pittance, constantly juggling unpaid rent and “customers” with wandering hands. But at least, it was my chaos. Here? It is someone else’s debt. And the land of a ghost. A week after my return, I posted an ad on f*******:. Something along the lines of: “Looking for strong arms, willing to trade their sweat for a comfortable room and three (frugal) meals a day.” The outcome? Three calls from perverts, two shady propositions, and one fellow who only wanted to squat here with his goats. I gave up. But sooner or later, I shall have to take someone on. Before the whole place quite literally collapses on my head. Or before I collapse in the mud—which comes to the same thing. At three o’clock, while secretly dreaming of becoming a houseplant—zero responsibility, zero debt—a knock comes at the door. And there—surprise! Jérémy. The boy I had all but grown up with. And also the one whose pride I crushed with a flick of the hand, years ago, when he offered me a life of farming, children, and Sunday dinners at his parents’. Irony of fate: here I am, stranded, on a farm. But not his, thank heavens. — Hi, he said. — Hi, I replied. Translation: Buzz off. — I wanted to come earlier, but… you know, the farm, work, all that… He speaks with that poorly trained puppy look, head tilted, shoulders slouched. Still as irritating as ever. — What do you want, Jérémy? I spat. — To invite you to my wedding. Ah. Of course. Because my life was desperately lacking in awkward moments. He hands me a white envelope. Probably chosen by his fiancée, rustic chic style. — Your father got a card, in case you hadn’t seen it… — Ah. I’ll see if I can squeeze in a minute between my two lives. Translation: Don’t count on it, pal. He’s got some nerve, seriously. Coming to talk to me about a wedding when my father isn’t even cold in his grave. — Sorry. The wedding was planned before… your father’s tragic death. Nobody expected… — That he would kill himself ? I finish, as sharp as a boning knife. — Yes… He blushes, lowers his eyes. Embarrassed. Awkward. Ridiculous. — Really ? All those debts and nobody noticed? I cross my arms. And my gaze. Icy. Unyielding. — My father says he could have made it. That he just panicked… Oh, of course. The great expert in hindsight. I grit my teeth. Hard. If I open my mouth now, I’m going to drive a pitchfork into his eye without even blinking. — Well, I… I’ll leave you be. I hope you’ll come, anyway. Count on it, asshole. As soon as he turns his back, I crumple the card in my hand. Destination: trash. And honestly, it never contained anything nearly as dirty. As evening falls, I drag my boots toward the house, utterly exhausted. I haven’t eaten since that damn breakfast, and my stomach twists painfully with every step. I feel my legs buckle under fatigue, my arms trembling with each movement. Even my eyelashes ache, which, frankly, should be medically impossible. As I near the front door, my gaze catches a figure frozen before me. Broad. Solid. Carved with an axe. He has that build you don’t push around without losing a tooth, with shoulders wide enough to cast a shadow over a streetlamp. Muscular, but not gym-selfie muscular—muscular like someone who hauls heavy things all the time, and hits when necessary. He stands there like a living warning. My heart leaps, ready to bolt without me. A cold drop slides down my back—perfect, all that’s missing is a creepy soundtrack to complete this low-budget horror masterpiece. But I grit my teeth. No way I’m backing down. I grab an old rake leaning against the wall. Fantastic. The ultimate gardening weapon. If things go south, at least I’ll have style: murdered while defending her lawn. I step forward, rake raised, with all the conviction of a pro… who has absolutely no idea what she’s doing. The shadow, motionless, seems to be waiting for me. It doesn’t move, not even when I make the gravel crunch under my boots. As I draw closer, I make out his features. A man. Tall. Solid. He wears a black ponytail and stands straight, like a statue. — Good evening! I call out, voice tense but firm. The man turns. Slowly, almost deliberately. His face, stern and sculpted, immediately seizes my gaze. Broad shoulders, a tattooed neck, and a posture almost military in its precision. He looks like a character escaped from another world. Another time. — Good evening, he replies in a deep voice, a subtle accent sliding over each syllable. He inclines his torso with perfectly measured elegance—too measured, in fact. It’s as if he’s playing the well-mannered gentleman to distract from the wolf beneath the suit. I stare at him without pretense, because pleasantries are for those who still have something to lose. His eyes, black and glimmering, study me like a specimen. No agitation, no anger—just that precise, surgical calm. The kind of calm that always precedes a neatly packaged disaster. I freeze for a moment, hypnotized by his presence, before regaining my senses. — I’m here about the job offer, he says. I blink. — What job offer? — The ad on f*******:, he clarifies, matter-of-factly. He steps forward. His tattooed hands immediately draw my attention. And his neck. Symbols stretch in ink all the way to his jawline. I swallow. — My plane landed from Japan last night, he adds. — A Japanese? Seriously? — Half. My mother is French, he replies with a faint smile. My name is Kineshi Yamaguchi. He bows again. My God, the beauty of mixed heritage is a weapon of mass destruction. — Are you alright? he asks, lifting his gaze to me. — Yes… yes, I stammer. I’m Aela. As you surely already know. My throat tightens. My heart pounds. Pull yourself together, Aela. Pull yourself together, damn it! — The position isn’t filled yet? he continues, voice calmer now. His gaze, however, is icy. — No, not yet. Well… it’s still open, yes. But you show up unannounced, like a stomach bug in the middle of a meeting, and I need to know: have you ever worked on a farm, or are you just planning to come and wreak havoc in style? I stare him straight in the eyes, scanning for bullshit. One wrong blink, and I’d bury him under manure, CV or no CV. — I’m strong. Resilient. Test me, he says with disarming confidence. It’s not for lack of temptation, I think, blushing like an i***t. — Very well, I finally respond. But I’ll make one thing clear: here, no ambiguity. You are housed, fed, and clothed. In exchange for real work. And nothing more. — Of course, he says, with a smile that instantly makes me regret my “nothing more.” — Tomorrow will be your trial day. I’ll tell you in the evening if you’re staying. And if so, we’ll sign a little contract. — All right, he agrees without flinching. — Did you come by car? Do you have somewhere to stay tonight? — I took the bus to the village, then walked. And no, I have nowhere to spend the night. I look at him. An alarm flashes in a corner of my brain, like a red siren accompanied by a looping “you’re going to regret this.” And yet, I already feel my mouth opening to say something foolish. Classic. It’s almost a family tradition: hosting trouble with a smile included. I sigh and say: — Follow me. I lead him to the outbuilding. A simple studio, separate from the house. Just enough to keep some distance… At least, in theory. — Here’s your room for tonight, I say, pushing open the studio door, my heart beating a little too fast for something so mundane. — You have your own space here, I add in a tone I hope sounds neutral, like I’ve got this under control, when in reality, I don’t. It used to be the winter hideaway for skiers, the cozy little spot my father rented at a fortune to Parisians craving snow and charm. But this year, surprise: no tourists in fluorescent jackets, just a tattooed samurai-looking stranger. A necessary sacrifice, apparently. He steps inside without a word, eyes scanning every corner, as alert as a cat confronted with the unknown. The studio is modest, yes, but functional. A one-and-a-half bed, kitchenette smelling of disinfected pine, a bathroom where you can shower and sit on the toilet if you stretch your legs. Rural luxury. — Perfect. Arigato, he says, with that disarming calm that annoys me as much as it fascinates me. — I’ll need your passport, I say a little too sharply, suddenly very aware of my own stress. — It’s a safety thing, in case… something happens, I clarify, as if I’m not already picturing his photo in a true crime article. He looks at me with a flicker of surprise, then nods, almost solemnly. — I understand. And without a word, he pulls his passport from his backpack. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world to hand over your papers to a vaguely muddy stranger, hiding out in the middle of nowhere. I take it. Check the photo. Him, younger. Same direct gaze, same jawline too perfectly sculpted for my own good. Great. Not only does he have a perfectly crush-worthy face, but he’s also legal. My survival instinct screams at me to make him leave. My curiosity, on the other hand, settles in with a bucket of popcorn. I hand him the studio key, and he inclines his head slightly. — Arigato, he says again, that sly smile on his lips. The kind of smile that could mean thank you… or I’m going to slice you into thin strips in your sleep. — Get some rest. Tomorrow will be the big test, I warn, almost military-style. I turn on my heels, just to avoid standing there like a clueless teen, staring. I take a few steps away, arms dangling, trying to act casual—except my heart has started tap-dancing like a maniac on stage. Behind me, the door clicks shut with a dull thud, ending the scene with an excess of solemnity. I turn back and stare at the wood. Because apparently, I’m waiting for the wood to give me answers. Great. Dignity is dead. Rest in peace. — Holy s**t… what the hell am I doing? I murmur. Seriously, what have I done? I’ve literally just installed a stranger in my house. A guy from nowhere, who appeared like a mirage with a ponytail and dusty sneakers, and I gave him a key. And what if he’s a serial killer? A fugitive ex-yakuza? A raw milk fetishist? I shake my head, silently cursing myself. Too late to back out now. Tomorrow, maybe, I’ll be chopped into pieces in the freezer I haven’t even defrosted yet. But hey. We all have to die of something. And let’s be honest: I need help. No strong arms, no farm. And I’m running on empty. So I trust my instincts. Even if, between us, my instincts are about as reliable as an Ikea umbrella in the middle of a storm. The book is available for purchase here : https://books2read.com/u/3GZWBa