Killing Commendatore: A novel (32 page)

When my girlfriend came over I told her all about the dinner party at Menshiki's. Leaving out, of course, any mention of Mariye Akikawa, the high-powered binoculars, and the Commendatore having secretly accompanied me. What I described was the dinner menu, the way the rooms were laid out in the house, the kind of furniture—safe subjects. We were in bed, completely naked, after making love for about a half hour. At first it was hard to relax, knowing that the Commendatore must be observing us, but as we got into it, I forgot all about him. If he wanted to watch, let him.

Like a rabid sports fan is dying to know how his favorite team scored in the game the night before, my girlfriend panted over every detail of the dishes we had at dinner. I painstakingly went over the details, as far as I could remember them, from the hors d'oeuvres to dessert, from the wine to the coffee. Even the tableware. I've always been blessed with great visual recall. If I focus on something, even a trivial thing, I can recall the minutest details, even after time has passed. I could reproduce the special features of every dish that was served, as if I were doing a quick sketch. She listened to my descriptions, a spellbound look in her eyes, at times actually gulping back her desire.

“Sounds amazing,” she said dreamily. “Someday I'd love to have a wonderful meal like that.”

“To tell the truth, though, I don't remember much of what it tasted like,” I said.

“You don't remember how the food tasted? But you liked it, right?”

“Yes. It was delicious. That much I remember. But I can't recall the flavors, can't explain it in words.”

“Even though you remember exactly what it looked like?”

“I could reproduce exactly what it looked like. I'm a painter—it's what I do. But I can't explain what went into it. Maybe a writer would be able to describe the flavors.”

“Weird,” she said. “So even when we do
this
together, you could paint a painting of it later on, but you wouldn't be able to reproduce the feeling in words?”

I gathered my thoughts. “You're talking about sexual pleasure?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. You may be right. But I think describing the flavor of a dish is harder than describing sexual pleasure.”

“So what you're saying,” she said, in a voice as chilly as an early-winter nightfall, “is that the taste of the dishes Mr. Menshiki served you is more exquisite, and deeper, than the sexual pleasure I provide?”

“That's not what I'm saying,” I said hurriedly. “It's not a comparison of the quality of the two, but a question of the degree of difficulty of explaining them. In a technical sense.”

“All right,” she said. “What I give you isn't so bad, is it? In a technical sense?”

“Of course,” I said. “It's amazing. In a technical sense, and all other senses, so amazing I couldn't paint it.”

Truthfully the physical pleasure she provided me left nothing to be desired. Up till then I'd had sexual relationships with a number of women—not so many I could brag about it—but her vagina was more exquisite, more wondrously varied, than
any other
I'd ever known. And it was a deplorable thing that it had lain there, unused, for so many years. When I told her this, she didn't look as dissatisfied as you might have thought.

“Really?”

“Really.”

She looked at me, dubiously, then seemed to take me at my word.

“So, did he show you the garage?” she asked.

“The garage?”

“His legendary garage with its four British cars.”

“No, I didn't see it,” I said. “It's such a huge place, and I didn't get a chance to see the garage.”

“Hm,” she said. “You didn't ask him if he really does own a Jaguar XK-E?”

“No. I didn't think of it. I mean, I'm not really into cars.”

“You're happy with a used Corolla station wagon?”

“You got it.”

“I'd love to be able to touch a Jaguar XK-E sometime. It's such a gorgeous car. I've been in love with that car ever since I saw it in a film with Audrey Hepburn and Peter O'Toole when I was a child. Peter O'Toole was driving a bright, shiny Jaguar E. Now what color was it? Yellow, as I recall.”

Her thoughts drifted to that sports car she'd seen as a young girl, while what came to my mind was that Subaru Forester. The white Subaru parked in the parking lot on the edge of that tiny town along the coast in Miyagi. Not a particularly attractive vehicle. A typical small SUV, a squat little utilitarian machine. I doubt there'd be many people who would unconsciously feel like touching it. Unlike with a Jaguar XK-E.

“So you didn't get to see the greenhouse or the gym either?” she asked me. She was talking about Menshiki's house again.

“No such luck. Didn't get to see the greenhouse, the gym, or the laundry room, the maid's quarters, the kitchen, or the spacious walk-in closet, or the game room with the billiard table. He didn't show them to me.”

That evening Menshiki had an important matter he had to talk with me about. He was far too preoccupied to give me a leisurely tour of the house.

“Does he really have a huge walk-in closet, and a game room with a billiard table?”

“I don't know. I'm just guessing. It wouldn't be strange if he did, though.”

“He didn't show you any of the other rooms besides the study?”

“Yeah. It's not like I'm interested in interior design. What he showed me were the foyer, the living room, the study, and the dining room.”

“You didn't try to spot Bluebeard's secret chamber?”

“Didn't have the chance to. And I wasn't about to ask Menshiki, ‘By the way, where is the famous Bluebeard's secret chamber?' ”

She shook her head a few times, clicking her tongue in frustration. “I tell you, that's what's wrong with men. Don't you have any curiosity? If it were me, I'd want to see every nook and cranny.”

“The things men and women are curious about must be different.”

“It seems like it,” she said, resigned to it. “But that's okay. I should be happy to have gotten a lot of new info about the interior of Mr. Menshiki's house.”

I was getting increasingly uneasy. “Getting information is one thing, but it wouldn't be good if this got out to others. Through your jungle grapevine…”

“It's all right. No need for you to worry about every little thing,” she said cheerily.

She took my hand and guided it to her clitoris. In this way, our two spheres of curiosity once more significantly overlapped. I still had time before I had to go teach. At that point I thought I heard the bell in the studio faintly ringing, but I was probably just hearing things.

After she drove away in the red Mini just before three, I went into the studio, and picked up the bell from the shelf. I couldn't see anything different about it. It had just been quietly lying there. I looked around, but the Commendatore was nowhere to be seen.

I went over to the canvas, sat down on the stool, and gazed at the portrait of the man with the white Subaru Forester that I'd begun. I wanted to consider the direction I should take it in now. But here I made an unexpected discovery.

The painting was
already complete
.

Needless to say, the painting was still unfinished. I had a few ideas I planned to incorporate into it. At this point the painting was nothing more than a rough prototype of the man's face done with the three colors I'd mixed, the colors riotously slapped on over the rough charcoal sketch. In my eyes, of course, I could detect the ideal form of
The Man with the White Subaru Forester
. His face was there in the painting in a latent, trompe l'oeil type of way. But this was only visible to me. It was, at this point, only the foundation for a painting. Merely the hint and suggestion of things to come. But that man—the person I had been trying to paint from memory—was already satisfied with his taciturn form presented there. And maybe dead set against his likeness being made any clearer than it was now.

Don't you touch anything
, the man was saying—or maybe commanding—from the canvas.
Don't you add a single thing more
.

The painting was complete as is, incomplete. The man actually existed, completely, in that inchoate form. A contradiction in terms, but there was no other way to describe it. And that man's hidden form looked out to me from the canvas as if signaling some hard-and-fast idea. Trying hard to get me to understand something. But I still had no idea what that was. This man is alive, I felt. Actually alive and moving.

The paint on the picture was still wet, but I took the canvas down from the easel, turned it facing away, and propped it up against the studio wall, careful not to get paint on the wall. It was harder and harder for me to stand seeing the painting. There was something ominous about it—something I shouldn't know about.

Hovering around the painting was the air of a fishing port. In that air was a mix of smells—the smell of the tide, of fish scales, of diesel engines, of fishing boats. Flocks of birds were screeching, slowly circling on the strong wind. The black golf cap of a middle-aged man who'd probably never played a round of golf in his life. The darkly tanned face, the stringy nape of the neck, the short-clipped hair mixed with gray. The well-used leather jacket. The clatter of knives and forks in the restaurant—that impersonal sound found at chain restaurants around the world. And the white Subaru Forester quietly parked in the lot out front. The sticker of a marlin on the rear bumper.

“Hit me,” the woman had said in the middle of sex. Her fingernails were digging deep into my back. There was a strong smell of sweat. I did as she asked, smacking her face with an open hand.

“Not like that. Don't hold back, hit me harder,” the woman said, shaking her head violently. “Harder,
much
harder. Really hit me. I don't care if there's a bruise. Hard enough so my nose bleeds.”

I had no desire to hit her. I never had those kind of violent tendencies. Hardly any at all. But she was
seriously
hoping I would
seriously
hit her. What she needed was real pain. So I reluctantly hit her again, a little harder this time. Hard enough to leave a red mark on her. Every time I struck her, her flesh squeezed my penis like a vise. Like a starving animal pouncing on some food.

“Would you choke me a little?” she whispered a little while later. “Use this.”

The sound seemed to be coming from another realm. She pulled out a white bathrobe belt from under her pillow. She'd had it there, ready to use.

I refused. I could never do something like that. It was too dangerous. Mess up, and she could die.

“Just pretend,” she pleaded, gasping. “You don't need to really choke me, just pretend like you are. Wrap this around my neck and tighten it a little.”

I couldn't refuse.

The impersonal clatter of silverware in a chain restaurant.

I shook my head, trying to drive away those memories. It was an incident I didn't care to recall, a memory I'd like to throw away and never have again. But the feel of that bathrobe belt lingered in my hands. The way her neck felt, too. For whatever reason, these stayed with me.

And this man knew.
Where I'd been the night before, what I'd done. What I'd been thinking.

What should I do with this painting? Keep it here in the studio, turned toward the wall? Even turned around like that, it still made me uneasy. The only other place to keep it was the attic. The same place Tomohiko Amada had hidden away
Killing Commendatore
. The place to hide away what was in your heart.

In my mind, the words I'd spoken aloud came back to me.

I could reproduce exactly what it looked like. I'm a painter—it's what I do. But I can't explain what went into it.

All sorts of things I couldn't explain were insidiously grabbing hold of me. Tomohiko Amada's
Killing Commendatore
that I'd discovered in the attic, the strange bell left behind inside the gaping stone chamber in the woods, the Idea that appeared to me in the guise of the Commendatore, and the middle-aged man with the white Subaru Forester. And that odd white-haired person who lived across the valley. Menshiki seemed to be enlisting me into some kind of plan he had in mind.

The whirlpool swirling around me was gradually picking up speed. And there was no way for me to turn back. It was too late. That whirlpool was totally soundless. And that weird silence had me scared.

That evening I taught a children's art class. The assignment that day was to do rough sketches of people. The children worked in pairs, selecting the type of drawing instruments they wanted from the ones the school had prepared ahead of time (charcoal or various types of soft pencils), and took turns sketching each other in their notebooks. They were limited to fifteen minutes per drawing (I used a kitchen timer to accurately time them). They were supposed to use an eraser as little as they could, and limit themselves to one sheet of paper, if possible.

One by one the children then came to the front of the class, showed us their sketches, and got feedback from the other children. It was a small class, and the atmosphere was congenial. Afterward I went forward and taught them some simple techniques for rough sketches. I explained in general the difference between
croquis
—rough sketches—and
dessan
. A dessan is more of a blueprint for a painting, and requires a certain accuracy. Compared with that, a croquis is a free first impression. You get an impression in your mind and trace the rough outline of it before it disappears. More than accuracy, croquis require balance and speed. Many famous painters actually weren't very skilled at doing croquis. I've always prided myself on being good at drawing these kind of quick sketches.

Finally I chose one of the children to model for me and did a rough sketch of her on the blackboard in white chalk, to show them an actual example.
Wow! You're so fast! It looks just like her!
the children called out, impressed. One of a teacher's important duties is to get children to be genuinely impressed.

Next, I had them change partners and do another croquis, and the second time they were much improved. They absorbed knowledge quickly. This time, the instructor was impressed. Of course some of them were better than others, but that didn't matter. What I was teaching them was less how to draw than a way to view the world.

On this day I selected Mariye Akikawa (intentionally, of course) to serve as model when I drew an example. I did a simple sketch of her from the waist up on the blackboard. It wasn't exactly a croquis, though the elements were the same. I finished quickly, in three minutes. I wanted to use the class to test what kind of painting I could do of her. What I discovered in doing this was that, as a model for a painting, she had a lot of unique possibilities hidden away inside.

I'd never really consciously observed her before, but now, looking at her carefully as the subject of a drawing, I found her face far more intriguing than my original vague impression. It wasn't just that she had lovely features. She was, indeed, a beautiful girl, but a closer observation showed a kind of imbalance at work. And behind that unstable expression there was a latent energy, like some agile animal lurking in the tall grass.

I wanted to see if I could capture that impression, but it was next to impossible to do that in three minutes, in chalk on a blackboard. Basically impossible, I should say. I needed more time to observe her face and dissect all the elements. And I had to know more about this young girl.

I left the chalk sketch of her on the blackboard, and after the children had all left, I stayed behind, arms folded, studying the sketch. I tried to determine if there was anything of Menshiki in her features. But I couldn't decide. I could detect a resemblance in certain features, in others not so much—it could go either way. But if I had to give one feature it would be the eyes, a shared look in their eyes. The distinctive way their eyes would flash for an instant.

If you stare long enough deep into the bottom of a clear spring you discover a kind of lump that emits light. You can't see it unless you look very closely. That lump soon wavers and loses shape. The more carefully you look, the more you start to wonder if it might all be an illusion. But something there is unmistakably glowing. Having done countless portraits of people, occasionally I'll sense someone giving off that
glow
. Not many people have it. But this girl and Menshiki were among these rare few.

The middle-aged receptionist at the school came into the classroom to straighten up and stood beside me, admiring the drawing.

“That's Mariye Akikawa, isn't it,” she said at first glance. “A very nice likeness. It looks like she's about to start moving. It's a waste to have to erase it.”

“Thank you,” I said. I got up from my desk, picked an eraser, and completely wiped the sketch away.

The Commendatore finally made an appearance the next day (Saturday). It was the first time since Tuesday night at the dinner at Menshiki's that he—to borrow his phrase—
materialized
. I was back from food shopping, in the living room reading a book, when I heard the sound of the bell tinkling from the studio. I went into the studio and found the Commendatore seated on the shelf, lightly shaking the bell next to his ear. As if making sure of the subtle sound. When he spotted me he stopped ringing the bell.

“It's been a while,” I said.

“Negative. It has been nothing of the kind,” the Commendatore said curtly. “An Idea travels around the world in units of hundreds, thousands of years. A day or two does not count as time.”

“How did you like Mr. Menshiki's dinner party?”

“Ah, yes, an interesting dinner that was. I could not partake of the food, of course, but did feast my eyes on it. And Menshiki is a fascinating fellow. Always thinking several steps ahead. And there is much pent up inside him.”

“He asked me to do a favor for him.”

“Affirmative.” The Commendatore gazed at the ancient bell in his hand. He did not seem interested. “I heard it all quite clearly. But it is not something that has much to do with me. It is a practical matter—a worldly matter, you could say—that is between my friends and Menshiki.”

“Is it all right if I ask a question?” I said.

The Commendatore rubbed his goatee with his palm. “Affirmative. But I do not know if I will be able to answer.”

“It's about Tomohiko Amada's painting
Killing Commendatore
. I assume you know the painting, since you borrowed one of the figures. The painting seems based on an incident in Vienna in 1938. Something Tomohiko Amada himself was involved in. Do you know anything about that?”

Arms folded, the Commendatore thought this over. Finally he narrowed his eyes and spoke.

“There are
plenty
of things in history that are best left in the shadows. Accurate knowledge does not improve people's lives. The objective does not necessarily surpass the subjective, you know. Reality does not necessarily extinguish fantasy.”

“Generally speaking,” I said, “that might be so. But that painting is calling out to anyone who sees it. I get the sense that Tomohiko Amada painted it to privately capture an event that was essential to him but that he could not share with others. He changed the characters and setting to another age, and made a metaphorical confession, using his newly acquired skills in Japanese-style painting. I even get the feeling that that was the sole reason he abandoned Western painting and converted to Japanese art.”

“Cannot you just let the painting speak for itself?” the Commendatore said softly. “If that painting wants to say something, then best to let it speak. Let metaphors be metaphors, a code a code, a sieve a sieve. Is there something wrong with that?”

A sieve? But I let it go.

“No, nothing's wrong with that,” I said. “I'd just like to know what made Tomohiko Amada paint it. It's clear that the painting is expecting something. The picture was, without a doubt, painted for a specific purpose.”

The Commendatore continued to rub his beard with his palm as if recalling something. “Franz Kafka was quite fond of slopes,” he said. “He was drawn to all sorts of slopes. He loved to gaze at homes built on the middle of a slope. He would sit by the side of the street for hours, staring at houses built like that. He never grew tired of it and would sit there, tilting his head to one side, then straightening it up again. A kind of strange fellow. Did you know this?”

Franz Kafka and slopes?

“No, I didn't,” I said. I'd never heard of that.

“But does knowing that make one appreciate his works more?”

I didn't respond to his question.

“So you knew Franz Kafka, too? Personally?”

“He does not know about me personally, of course,” the Commendatore said. He chuckled, as if recalling something. This might have been the first time I'd seen him laugh out loud. Was there something about Franz Kafka to make him chuckle?

His expression returned to normal and he went on.

“The truth is a symbol, and symbols are the truth. It is best to grasp symbols the way they are. There's no logic or facts, no pig's belly button or ant's balls. When people try to use a method other than the truth to follow along the path of understanding, it is like trying to use a sieve to hold water. I am telling you this for your own good. Better to give it up. Sadly, what Menshiki is doing is similar to that.”

“So no matter what, it's a wasted effort?”

“No one can ever float something full of holes on water.”

“So what exactly is Mr. Menshiki trying to do?”

The Commendatore lightly shrugged. Charming lines formed between his eyebrows that reminded me of a young Marlon Brando. I seriously doubted the Commendatore had ever seen Elia Kazan's
On the Waterfront,
but those lines were exactly like Marlon Brando's. Though I had no way of knowing how far he went, when it came to referencing his appearance and features.

He said, “There is very little I can explain to my friends about Tomohiko Amada's
Killing Commendatore
. That is because it is, in essence, allegory and metaphor. Allegories and metaphors are not something you should explain in words. You just grasp them and accept them.”

The Commendatore scratched behind his ear with his little finger. Just like a cat will scratch behind its ear before it rains.

“I will, however, tell my friends one thing. Nothing that is enormously significant, but tomorrow night you'll get a phone call. A call from Menshiki. Think things over
very carefully
before you answer. Your answer will be the same no matter how much you think it over, but it is still best to think it over very carefully.”

“And it's very important to let the other person know you're thinking things over carefully, isn't it. As a gesture.”

“Affirmative. A hard-and-fast rule in business is to never accept the first offer. Remember that, and you will never go wrong.” The Commendatore chuckled again. He seemed in an especially good mood today. “Changing topics, but I wondered, is it interesting to touch a clitoris?”

“I don't think you touch it because it's interesting,” I said honestly.

“From the sidelines it is hard to understand.”

“I don't think I get it, either,” I said. So an Idea, too, doesn't necessarily understand everything.

“About time for me to disappear,” the Commendatore said. “I have someplace else I need to go. Do not have much time.”

And with that the Commendatore vanished. A gradual, phased disappearance, like the Cheshire Cat's. I went to the kitchen, made a simple dinner, and ate. I considered for a moment what “someplace else” an Idea would need to go to. And naturally had no clue.

Like the Commendatore had prophesized, at just past eight the following evening, I got a phone call from Menshiki.

I thanked him again for the dinner party. The food was amazing, I said. It was nothing, he replied. I want to thank
you
, Menshiki said, for letting me have such an enjoyable time. I also thanked him for the payment for the portrait, which was way more than we'd agreed to. Please don't worry about it, Menshiki said modestly. That's only to be expected, for such a wonderful painting. Once we'd finished all these polite exchanges there was a moment of silence.

“By the way, about Mariye Akikawa,” Menshiki began, as casually as if discussing the weather. “You remember the other day when I asked if you would have her model for a painting?”

“Of course I remember.”

“Yesterday I asked Mariye—actually Mr. Matsushima, the owner of the arts-and-culture center, asked her aunt—if it might be possible—and she agreed to model.”

“I see,” I said.

“So all the pieces are in place, if you'll agree to paint the portrait.”

“But Mr. Menshiki, isn't Mr. Matsushima a bit suspicious that you're involved in this?”

“I've been very careful, so no need to worry. He sees me as acting as your patron of sorts. I hope you're not offended…”

“I don't mind,” I said. “But I'm surprised Mariye Akikawa agreed. She's so quiet and docile, and strikes me as a timid girl.”

“Honestly, her aunt didn't like the idea at first. She felt nothing good could come from modeling for a painting. I'm sorry if this offends you, as an artist.”

“No, most people would feel that way.”

“But Mariye herself seemed quite interested in modeling for the painting. She said if you'd paint her she'd be happy to pose. She's the one who persuaded her aunt to agree.”

Why, I wondered? Was there some connection with the sketch of her I did on the blackboard? I didn't venture to bring this up with Menshiki.

“Things have worked out perfectly, haven't they?” Menshiki said.

I thought it over. Was this really the perfect way for things to go? Menshiki seemed to be waiting for my opinion.

“Could you tell me more about how this would unfold?”

Menshiki said, “It's very simple. You're looking for a model for a painting. And you think that Mariye Akikawa, from your art class, would be perfect. So you had the owner of the arts-and-culture center, Mr. Matsushima, sound out the girl's guardian, her aunt. That's the story. Mr. Matsushima personally recommended you. Said you have a sterling character, are an enthusiastic teacher, that you're a talented artist with a promising future. I don't appear anywhere in this. I made sure my name didn't come up. Naturally she'll be clothed when she models, and her aunt will accompany her. And you'll finish the sessions by noon. Those are the conditions they laid down. What do you think?”