Killing Commendatore: A novel (46 page)

I nodded. I'd been thinking the same thing for a few days, in a vague sort of way.

“It seems to me that, little by little, you're finding a new direction,” he went on. “Like you've finally emerged from a deep forest. You should take this really seriously, old friend.”

He raised his glass and took a swallow of whiskey. The ice cubes tinkled.

I felt an urge to show Masahiko his father's
Killing Commendatore
. What would he have to say about it? His comments might provide a valuable clue. But I suppressed the impulse. Something was holding me back.

It's still too early
, it said. Still too early.

We left the studio and went back to the living room. The wind had picked up—through the window I could see thick clouds edging their way north. The moon was hidden from view.

“So about what brought me here,” Masahiko said, not wasting any more time. He seemed to be steeling himself for what he was about to say.

“It sounds like something that's not easy to discuss,” I said.

“You're right, it's hard.
Quite
hard, in fact.”

“But it's something that I need to know.”

Masahiko rubbed his hands together. Like a man preparing to lift a heavy object.

“It's about Yuzu,” he said, cutting to the chase. “She and I have met up a number of times. Before you left this spring, and afterward, too. She calls me when she wants to talk, and then we meet somewhere. She asked me not to tell you. I hated hiding it from you, but, well, I promised her.”

I nodded. “It's important to keep our promises.”

“Yuzu and I were friends too, you know.”

“I know,” I said. Masahiko put great stock in friendship. It could be a weakness of his.

“She had another man. Apart from you, that is.”

“I know that too.
Now,
at least.”

He nodded. “It started about six months before you walked out. Their relationship, that is. It hurts me to tell you this, but the guy is someone I know. A colleague of mine at work.”

I let out a small sigh. “I imagine he's really handsome, right?”

“Yeah, you got it. Classic features. An agency scouted him in high school, and he modeled part-time for a while. He's that good-looking. And, well, it seems that I was the one who introduced them.”

I didn't say anything.

“At least that's how it worked out,” Masahiko said.

“Yuzu always had a thing for handsome men. It was almost pathological. She knew it too.”

“You're not bad-looking yourself,” he said.

“Thanks, man. Now I can sleep better tonight.”

We didn't speak for a time. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Anyway, he's a really good-looking guy. A nice guy, too. I know this doesn't help you very much, but he's not violent, or a womanizer, or vain about his looks. He's not that type.”

“That's nice to hear,” I said. My voice was tinged with sarcasm, though I hadn't meant it to sound that way.

“It all started in September a year ago,” Masahiko said. “He and I were out together when we bumped into Yuzu, and since it was about noon, the three of us stopped for lunch nearby. Believe me, I had absolutely no idea things would turn out this way. He's five years younger than she is.”

“So the two of them didn't waste much time.”

Masahiko gave a small shrug. Things must have progressed very quickly indeed.

“The guy talked to me about what was going on,” he said. “Your wife did as well. It put me in a very difficult position.”

I kept quiet. Anything I said would just make me look foolish.

Masahiko was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. “The fact is, Yuzu is pregnant.”

I was speechless for a moment. “Yuzu? Pregnant?”

“Yeah, seven months gone already.”

“She did it on purpose?”

“I don't know,” Masahiko said, shaking his head. “But she's planning to have the baby. After seven months there's not much choice, is there.”

“She always told me she wasn't ready for kids.”

He winced slightly. “There's no chance the child could be yours, is there?” he said, looking into his glass.

I did a quick mental calculation. “No. I don't know the legal side of it, but biologically the chances are zero. I left eight months ago, and we haven't seen each other since.”

“That's good,” Masahiko said. “At any rate, she asked me to tell you she's going to have a baby. And that it shouldn't cause you any problems.”

“But then why tell me at all?”

He shook his head. “I guess she's informing you out of courtesy.”

I said nothing.
Out of courtesy?

“I've been waiting for the chance to apologize for all this. I knew what was going on between Yuzu and my colleague, and I kept it from you. It was inexcusable. Under any circumstances.”

“Then was letting me stay in this house your way of making amends?”

“Not at all—there's no connection between that and Yuzu. My father lived and painted in this house for a great many years. I figured you could keep that tradition alive. It's not something I could have asked anybody else, not like that at all.”

Again, I said nothing. He sounded sincere.

“In any case,” Masahiko continued, “you signed and sealed the divorce papers you received and sent them back to Yuzu, right?”

“More precisely, to her lawyer. So our divorce should be official by now. I guess those two will choose a date for their own wedding now that's taken care of.”

And go on to have a happy marriage. A tall, handsome man, a small child, and little Yuzu. The three of them strolling happily through the park on a sunny Sunday morning. Heartwarming.

Masahiko added some ice and poured us more whiskey. He took a swig from his glass.

I went out to the terrace and looked across the valley at Menshiki's white house. Lights were on in some of the windows. What was Menshiki doing at this minute? What was he thinking about?

The night air was chilly. The leafless branches quivered in the wind. I went back to the living room and sat down.

“Can you forgive me?”

“It's not like you meant to hurt me,” I said, shaking my head.

“I for one am sorry it turned out this way. You and Yuzu looked so well matched, and you seemed happy together. It's sad that it fell apart.”

“You drop them both—the one that breaks is the egg,” I said.

Masahiko laughed weakly. “So how are things now? Is there a woman in your life?”

“Yeah, there's someone.”

“But not the same as Yuzu?”

“It's different. I've been looking for the same thing in women my whole life. Whatever that is, Yuzu had it.”

“And you can't find that in anyone else?”

“Not so far,” I said, shaking my head again.

“You have my sympathy,” Masahiko said. “So what is it exactly that you've been looking for?”

“It's hard to put into words. I feel as if I lost track of something along the way, and have been searching for it ever since. Don't you think that's how everyone falls in love?”

“I don't think you can say ‘everyone,' ” he said with a slight frown. “You may actually be in the minority. But if you can't find the right words, why not paint it? You are an artist, after all.”

“If you can't say it, paint it. That's easy to say. Not so easy to do, though.”

“But it may be important to try, don't you think?”

“And perhaps Captain Ahab should have set out after sardines.”

Masahiko laughed. “Sure, from a safety standpoint. But that's not how art is born.”

“Hey, give me a break. Mention art, and the conversation comes to a screeching halt.”

“Looks like we need some more whiskey,” he said, shaking his head. He poured us another drink.

“I can't drink too much. I've got to work tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow is tomorrow. Today is all we have right now,” Masahiko said.

I found this idea strangely compelling.

“Can I ask you a favor?” I said to Masahiko. Our conversation was wrapping up, and we were about to get ready for bed. The hands on the clock pointed to a little before eleven.

“Sure, anything at all.”

“I'd like to meet your father. Could you take me with you the next time you go to Izu?”

Masahiko regarded me as he might a strange animal. “You want to meet my father?”

“If it's not too much trouble.”

“It's no trouble at all. But my father's in no shape to talk to you. He's quite incoherent. His mind is chaotic—a mud swamp, really. So if you have any expectations—if you're hoping to gain some insight into the person known as Tomohiko Amada—you'll only be disappointed.”

“No, I'm not expecting anything like that. I just want to take one good look at him, that's all.”

“But why?”

I took a breath and looked around the room. “I've been living in this house for six months now,” I said. “Sitting on the stool he sat on, painting in his studio. Eating off his dishes, listening to his records. I feel his presence all over the place. That's why I have to meet the flesh-and-blood Tomohiko Amada. Once is enough. It doesn't matter a bit if we can't talk to each other.”

“Then it's all right,” Masahiko said, seemingly persuaded. “He won't be thrilled to see you, but he won't be ticked off either. He can't tell one person from another, you see. So there's no problem if you come along. I plan to visit the nursing home again pretty soon. According to the doctor, he doesn't have much longer—the end could come at any time. So join me on my next visit, if you're free.”

I brought a spare blanket, pillow, and futon and made up a bed on the sofa in the living room. I looked around the room to make sure the Commendatore wasn't there. If Masahiko woke up in the middle of the night and saw him—two feet tall and dressed in ancient Asuka garb—he'd freak out. He'd figure he had become a real alcoholic.

Besides the Commendatore, there was
The Man with the White Subaru Forester
to worry about. I had turned the painting around so no one could see it. Still, I had no idea what strangeness might happen without my knowledge in the middle of the night.

So I wasn't kidding when I wished Masahiko a sound sleep.

I gave him a spare pair of pajamas to wear. He and I were more or less the same size, so there was no problem with the fit. He took off his clothes, put on the pajamas, and climbed under the bedding I had laid out. The air in the room was a bit chilly, but he looked snug and warm under the covers.

“You're sure you're not angry?” he asked before I left.

“No, I'm not angry,” I answered.

“It must hurt a little, though.”

“Maybe a little.” I had the right to be a little hurt, I thought.

“But the cup is still one-sixteenth full.”

“You've got it there,” I said.

I turned off the living room light and retired to my bedroom. Before long I had fallen asleep, together with my slightly wounded feelings.

When I woke it was already light outside. Thin gray clouds covered the sky from end to end, but the sun's benevolent rays still quietly filtered through. It was not quite seven.

I washed my face, turned on the coffee maker, and went to check the living room. Wrapped in blankets, Masahiko was fast asleep on the sofa. He appeared unlikely to wake up any time soon. The almost empty bottle of Chivas Regal sat on the table. I managed to tidy up the bottle and glasses without disturbing him.

I must have drunk quite a lot the night before, but I wasn't a bit hungover. My mind was as sharp as it was every morning. No heartburn, either. I've never had a hangover in my life. Why, I don't know. Probably it's just the way I was born. One night's sleep and all traces of alcohol vanish from my system, however much I drink. I eat breakfast and I'm ready to go.

I toasted two slices of bread, fried two eggs, and ate them while listening to the news and weather on the radio. The stock market was fluctuating wildly, a new parliamentary scandal had been uncovered, and a terrorist bombing in the Middle East had killed and wounded many people. Nothing to brighten my day. Yet none of these events was likely to affect my immediate circumstances. For now, at least, they were limited to distant places and people I had never met. I felt bad, but there was nothing I could do. The weather forecast promised nothing new either. Not a particularly gorgeous day, but not particularly awful either. Overcast, but no rain. Maybe not, anyway. But the forecasters and media types were clever—they never used vague words like “maybe.” No, they stuck with convenient terms for which no one could be held accountable, like “probability of precipitation.”

When the news and weather ended, I turned off the radio and cleaned up the breakfast dishes. Then I sat down again at the table, drank a second cup of coffee, and thought. Most people would have used that time to read the Sunday paper, but I didn't subscribe. So I just sipped my coffee, looked at the magnificent willow tree outside the window, and thought.

First, I thought about my wife, who, I had been told, was about to give birth. Then it hit me—she wasn't my wife any longer. No connection between us remained. Not contractual, not personal. From where she stood, I was now in all likelihood a virtual stranger, a person of no special consequence. It felt weird. Until a few months ago we had eaten breakfast together, shared the same soap and towel, walked around naked in front of each other, slept in the same bed. Now our lives bore no relationship to each other.

As I followed this train of thought, gradually I began to feel a stranger to myself as well. I placed my hands on the table and studied them for a while. These were my hands, no doubt. Right and left a symmetrical pair. I used these hands to paint, to cook, to eat, sometimes to caress a woman's body. But this morning, for some reason, they didn't look like my hands at all. They had become a stranger's hands—the palms, the backs, the fingernails.

I quit studying my hands. And thinking about the woman who had formerly been my wife. I got up from the table and went to the bath, where I removed my pajamas and took a hot shower. I carefully washed my hair and shaved in the bathroom sink. When I finished, I thought about the baby Yuzu was about to have—the baby who was not my child—again. I didn't want to, but there was nothing I could do about it.

She was about seven months pregnant. Seven months ago had been the second half of April. Where was I then, and what was I doing? I had left home and set out on a long, solitary trip in mid-March, driving my antique Peugeot 205 more or less at random all across Hokkaido and northeastern Japan. By the time my trip ended and I returned to Tokyo it was already early May. In late April I had crossed over from Hokkaido to Aomori in northern Honshu on the ferry that ran from Hakodate to Oma on the Shimokita Peninsula.

I pulled the simple diary I had kept out of a desk drawer and checked. At that time I had been traveling in the mountains of Aomori, far from the sea. Although it was well into the second half of April, it was still cold, and snow was everywhere. Why on earth had I chosen such a cold place? I couldn't remember the precise location, but I did recall a small, almost deserted lakefront hotel where I had stayed for a few days. It was an unprepossessing old building made of concrete, where they offered simple (but not bad) meals and amazingly cheap rates. There was even a small outdoor hot springs bath in a corner of the garden that was available twenty-four hours a day. The hotel had just reopened for the spring season, and I was practically the only guest.

For some reason, my recollections of that trip were vague. All I recorded in the notebook I used as a diary were the names of the places I visited, where I stayed, what I ate, the distance I had driven, and how much I spent. It was a brief, very hit-and-miss record. I could find no mention of my thoughts and feelings, or anything else along those lines. I guess there was nothing to write about. One day just flowed into another, with no distinction between them. I had jotted down the names of the places, but couldn't remember much about any of them. Many times, even their names had been left out. Looking back, I could only recall that feeling of repetition: the same scenery day after day, the same food, the same weather (“cold” and “not so cold” were my only categories).

The little sketchbook I had carried did a better job of bringing the trip back to life. (I carried no camera, so I hadn't taken a single photograph. Instead, I had sketched.) Even so, there weren't that many sketches to look at. When I had spare time, I had just whipped off simple drawings of what was before my eyes with an old pencil or ballpoint pen. Flowers and plants on the roadside, dogs and cats, mountain peaks, things like that. Now and then I would sketch someone I met along the way, but I almost always gave those pictures to whomever I had drawn.

Beneath the diary entry for April 19 I had written the words “Dream last night.” That was all. I had been staying at the small lakefront hotel on that date. The words were underlined with a thick pencil. It must have been a special kind of dream to warrant such emphasis. It took me a while to remember what the dream had been about. When the memory returned, though, it arrived all at once.

The dream had come to me shortly before dawn that day. It was vivid, and very erotic.

In the dream I was back in the apartment in Hiroo. The one Yuzu and I had shared for six years. There was a bed, and my wife was sleeping in it. I was looking down at her from the ceiling. In other words, I was hovering above her. I didn't find that at all out of the ordinary. In fact, the me in the dream found floating in the air to be perfectly normal. Nothing unnatural about it. Of course, I had no idea I was dreaming. What was happening felt totally real.

Quietly, so as not to wake Yuzu, I descended from the ceiling to stand at the foot of the bed. I was sexually aroused, powerfully so. I hadn't made love to her for ages. Bit by bit, I peeled back the quilt covering her. She was fast asleep (had she taken a sleeping pill before retiring?) and showed no signs of waking up, even when I removed the quilt. She never even twitched. This made me more daring. Taking my time, I slipped off her pajama bottoms, then her panties. Her pajamas were a pale blue, her tiny cotton panties pure white. Still she did not wake. There was no resistance, no sound.

I gently parted her legs and caressed her vagina with my finger. It was warm and wet, and opened to my touch. As if it had been waiting for me. I couldn't stand it any longer—I slipped my erect penis inside. Or, from another angle, that part of her actively swallowed my penis, immersing it in what felt like warm butter. Yuzu did not open her eyes, but she sighed and let out a small moan. As if she had been impatient for this to happen. Her nipples were as hard as cherry pits when I touched them.

She might be deep in a dream, I thought. If she was dreaming of someone, though, it was surely not me. For a long while now she had resisted sex with me. Whatever dream she might be having, though, whoever she was mistaking me for, it was too late to turn back, for I was already inside her. It could be a terrible shock if she woke up in the midst of the act and saw who it was. She might well be furious. If that were to happen, I would deal with it then. Now all I could do was take it to the limit. My desire raged like a river through a broken dam, carrying me along.

At the beginning, I moved my penis slowly, trying not to arouse her so much as to wake her up, but, naturally, the pace quickened as I went on. I could tell from the way her body welcomed me that she wanted me to be more forceful. Soon, though, I reached the moment of climax. I wanted to remain inside her, but I couldn't control myself any longer. It had been ages since we had last had sex, and, though asleep, she was responding to our lovemaking with more passion than ever before.

My ejaculation was violent, and repeated. Again and again, semen poured from me, overflowing her vagina, turning the sheets sticky. There was nothing I could do to make it stop. If it continued, I worried, I would be completely emptied out. Yuzu slept deeply through it all without making a sound, her breathing even. Her sex, though, had contracted around mine, and would not let go. As if it had an unshakable will of its own and was determined to wring every last drop from my body.

I woke up at this point. I had indeed ejaculated. My underwear was drenched in semen. I quickly slipped it off to avoid soiling the bed, carried it to the sink, and washed it. Then I went out through the hotel's back door to bathe in the hot springs. As the bath was entirely exposed to the elements, with no ceiling or walls, I was freezing by the time I reached it. Once I got in, however, the water warmed me to the core.

I soaked there alone in the predawn hush, listening to the water drip as steam melted the ice, replaying the dream over and over in my head. The memory was so vivid and physical it didn't feel like a dream at all. I had
actually
visited the Hiroo apartment and had
actually
made love to Yuzu—that was the only way I could think about it. My hands remembered the touch of her silky skin and my penis could still feel her vagina. It had clung to my penis, had embraced it with a violent passion (true, Yuzu may have mistaken me for someone else, but it was me nonetheless). She had wrung me out, taking every last drop of my semen for her own.

I could not help but feel a kind of shame for having such a dream (if dream indeed it was). After all, I had raped my own wife in my imagination. I had undressed and entered her while she was sleeping, without her consent. In the eyes of the law, a man who does that to a woman—even his wife—is guilty of sexual assault. In that sense, my conduct was far from praiseworthy. Still, objectively speaking,
it was a dream
. Something experienced in sleep. I had not created it on purpose. I had not written the script.

Yet in it I had played out my truest hopes and desires. There was no question on that score. Had I been placed in a similar situation in real life—not in a dream—I might well have acted the same. I might have stripped and forcibly entered her. I wanted Yuzu's body, longed to penetrate it. I was possessed by that desire. I had been able to realize it in exaggerated form in my dream (conversely, only in a dream could it have been realized).

As I continued on my solitary journey, this “real” erotic dream provided me with a provisional kind of happiness. You might say it buoyed me up. By recalling it, I could feel that I was a living creature organically connected to the world. Linked to my surroundings not through logical or conceptual thought, but carnally, through my body.

At the same time, though, the thought that someone else—some other man—was
actually
enjoying Yuzu as I had in my dream was agony. That someone was caressing her stiffened nipples, removing her tiny white panties, and thrusting himself into her until he came, again and again. When I imagined that, it felt as though I were torn and bleeding inside. Nothing (as far as I could remember) had ever made me feel that way before.

That was the strange dream I had experienced shortly before dawn on April 19. Noted in my diary as “Dream last night” and thickly underlined in pencil.

It was right around that time that Yuzu had conceived. Of course, the precise date could not be known. But it would not be odd if it were that day.

The similarity between my situation and the story Menshiki had told me was striking. The difference was that he had made love to a flesh-and-blood woman on his office sofa
in reality
. That had not taken place in a dream. And it had been right around then that she had conceived. Immediately thereafter she had married a man of substantial means, and had subsequently given birth to Mariye. Menshiki's belief that Mariye might be his child therefore had a basis in fact. It was a long shot, perhaps, but at least it was possible. My lovemaking with Yuzu, on the other hand, had taken place in a dream. I was in the mountains of Aomori, while Yuzu was (probably) in the heart of Tokyo. Thus her child could not possibly be mine. That was the only logical conclusion. The odds were not low, they were zero.
If, that is,
one was thinking logically.

But my dream was too vivid to be so easily dismissed on logical grounds. Moreover, the pleasure I had felt during our lovemaking was greater, and far more memorable, than at any time during our six years of marriage. When I came again and again inside her, the fuses in my brain seemed to have all blown at once, melting what had been distinct layers of reality into a single heavy, turbid mass. As in the primal chaos of the earth.

So graphic an occurrence must have consequences—it couldn't end like any other dream. I felt that strongly. It had to be connected to
something
. To have some sort of impact on the present.

Masahiko woke up shortly before nine. He padded into the dining room in his pajamas and drank a cup of hot black coffee. No breakfast, thanks, he said—just coffee, if you don't mind. There were bags under his eyes.