Chapter 7: My Name Is
Chapter 7: My Name Is
“Yo… you really gonna go? I dunno… ha.”
“Yes, Mother. I’m going. I’m going to go and make something of myself.”
“Make something of yourself? How are you going to do that? Come on—who’s going to use some Corsican backwater bumpkin?”
“It’s not them using me. I’ll make it so they have no choice but to use me.”
“You’re too young. You don’t know much. You think you can endure that sly son of a bitch?”
“If I were scared of that, I wouldn’t have brought it up in the first place. I’d rather take my chances over there—whether it turns into gruel or rice—than sit on this tiny island getting slapped by sea wind. I won’t come back until I have golden epaulettes on my shoulders.”
That day, Napoleone Bonaparte left Ajaccio, his hometown on Corsica.
The yard where he ran around with his brothers and sisters, the house he had lived in since birth, the neighbors’ homes he was closest to, even the dirt road he always walked—
each and every one of them became a point on the horizon, and every time they did, Napoleone Bonaparte’s chest swelled.
Right now, he was Columbus.
Columbus, boarding the Santa Maria twice over—his will and his body—and stepping into an unknown world.
Napoleone felt proud of himself.
His future was shining brilliantly.
So brilliantly that it felt like the sun was floating right in front of his eyes.
That sun—close enough to touch if he only reached out a little, shining bright—filled his vision all the way until the first night he fell asleep on the French mainland.
Napoleone was happy.
“Hey… what did you say your name was? Say it one more time.”
“I’m Napoleone.”
“What? Na—Napoillione? Speak properly, you bumpkin.”
“Hey, you hear what that bastard said? He says it’s ‘la paille au nez’—straw stuck in your nose! ‘La paille au nez’!”
“What the fuck did you say? Shut up before I smash your head in!”
The brilliant light Napoleone had seen didn’t even last a full day.
Why?
It felt like the world—France—didn’t want Napoleone.
No. It wasn’t that the world didn’t want Napoleone.
The world had never wanted a Corsican bumpkin with a ridiculous accent.
Three days after arriving at the Brienne Military School, the Columbus inside Napoleone’s chest died.
To the people who laughed at him, he wasn’t Columbus, and he wasn’t an adventurer setting off into the unknown.
To them, Napoleone wasn’t even French.
Even his proud name—Napoleone, the name his mother, whom he loved most, had given him—was nothing but a joke to them for one reason alone: it wasn’t French.
Napoleone couldn’t even protect his beloved mother from their insult.
To the world, he was nothing but a clown with a ridiculous Corsican accent.
That day, Napoleone’s heart was torn to shreds.
Neither happiness nor sadness could take root in his chest anymore.
Only competitiveness—
the resolve to defeat those pig bastards who looked down on him, oppressed him, and refused to accept him, and who strutted around just because they happened to be born on the French mainland.
That was all.
That day, Napoleone Bonaparte
became
Napoleon Bonaparte.
“Ah. Ah. Aeiou. Napoleon, Napoleon, Napoleon.”
Even today, after finishing breakfast, Napoleon stood at the washbasin, moving his mouth left and right as he ran a pronunciation test.
It was a habit he had picked up while living at the Brienne Military School.
It had been a few months since he left Brienne and came to Paris’s Central Military School, but Napoleone—
no, Napoleon—
was still trapped by the memory of the first day he set foot in Brienne.
To be precise, he was trying not to forget it.
So the flame of vengeance in his heart wouldn’t go out, Napoleon chewed over that day every night before he slept.
And reality kept pouring gasoline onto that flame.
In fact, during the months he had been in Paris, most of the classmates and upperclassmen he met were astonishingly similar to the pigs he had faced in Brienne.
“Those Paris bastards aren’t any different from those Brienne bastards in the end.”
Today too, Napoleon had to fight a battle with those pigs.
In class, at meals, during breaks.
The pigs of the school would obviously envy him, resent him, and torment him—Napoleon, who had crushed Brienne with ability and come to Paris.
Still, he had to go on.
He had to shock the world with his ability, then return home proudly with golden epaulettes on his shoulders.
But…
“Still, it’d be nice if I had even one friend.”
Maybe because he was still young, not even fully through puberty—
wiping away the tears that leaked out with his hand, fifteen-year-old Napoleon left the boarding house again today.
“Eat among yourselves, you motherfucking bastards.”
“That guy… did he lose his damn mind?”
Napoleon thought.
From an ordinary person’s view of social life and from a soldier’s view of tactical judgment, the scene Napoleon was watching couldn’t be explained.
On the first day after transferring, someone who looked two years younger than a few guys who obviously looked nasty-tempered—spitting obscene insults straight into their faces—what the hell was he thinking?
“What, is that kid’s dad a duke or the finance minister or something?”
No. There was no way.
Napoleon wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but he’d ended up hearing a bit: that little kid who wasn’t even wearing a uniform was a bumpkin from some place near Toulon—Ge-what-was-it.
A bumpkin like him.
The accent wasn’t as distinctive as Napoleon’s Corsican one, but still.
This wasn’t some street market—this was a Paris military school packed with the “smart” ones among nobles.
And some bumpkin with no backing picked a fight with the school bullies on day one.
“Heh. This kid’s got some balls.”
For some reason, Napoleon didn’t dislike that little brat doing something that crazy.
If anything, he was curious.
“If I get close to that kid, I won’t be bored. Haha. Well, it’s not like I’ll get tangled up with him.”
Napoleon shut the book he had been reading and thought.
“Uh… how old are you?”
“I-I’m… thirteen…”
“Ah, then you’re a ’71 kid?”
“Y-yes…”
“Why do you look like you’re about to die? Is it my way of talking that bothers you, or what?”
“N-no, no, no. It’s not that…”
“Then what is it? What’s so scary?”
“Your name really is… Napoleon Bonaparte?”
“Yeah! How many times do I gotta say it!”
Wow.
Wow.
Wow—Napoleon. Napoleon…
This guy really is Napoleon?
Now that I think about it, he kind of looks like the Napoleon portrait I remember…
The portrait was a little wider and puffier, but people can get like that when they’re older.
Anyway, if this guy is Napoleon, I have to become friends with him. Absolutely.
Someday, he becomes emperor. Then later, he gets beaten by the countries of Europe and ends up exiled to some island somewhere—probably in the Mediterranean—and dies.
Ah…
It feels kind of gross, thinking I already know the fate of the person right in front of me.
Is this what a shaman’s life is like?
Napoleon opened his mouth and spoke to me while I was lost in thought.
“I’m a ’69 kid, and if you don’t mind… can I drop honorifics?”
“Of course. Yes. How could I possibly say no?”
Without realizing it, I ended up talking like a eunuch serving a king.
Damn it.
The “low-status sensor” in my brain, which hadn’t been working earlier, was now running at full power.
“Then can I call you Guillaume, my junior?”
“Ah—call me whatever you want, as much as you want!”
When I said that, Napoleon’s brows pinched together.
What was it? Did I say something wrong? Did he not like my over-deferential tone?
My heart pounded hard.
I’m not about to get arrhythmia from this, right?
“Junior.”
“Y-yes…!”
“Call me ‘older brother.’”
“What?”
“Call me ‘older brother.’”
“O-older brother.”
“Hey! You call yourself a man and that’s all you’ve got?”
“O-older brother!!!”
“Wahahaha! Yeah, that’s it! That’s what I wanted!”
“H-ha… ha…”
“Guillaume, my junior!”
“Y-yeah! No—uh, y-yeah! Older brother!”
“You got any plans tonight?”
“N-no… I don’t…”
“Then come on—how about you come to my place and we talk man-to-man, no holding back?”
“Y-yeah! S-sure!”
Beep. Beep. Guillaume-crosoft Windows is shutting down. System error. Please reboot. Fatal error occurred. Error code: Napoleon. Napoleon. Unable to resume system. Explosion in three seconds. Three, two, one—
Once again, I felt my mind drifting away.
That day, I got dragged to Napoleon’s boarding house and ended up talking with him one-on-one for a full five hours.