Харуки Мураками - Killing Commendatore

I recalled my sister’s hands. She had taken my hand in hers when we entered the chilly darkness of the wind cave on Mt. Fuji. Her hand was small and warm—yet her fingers were surprisingly strong. A definite life force connected us. Each was giving something to the other, and at the same moment receiving something. It was an exchange limited to a particular time and place. It was bound to fade and disappear. But the memory remained. Memory can give warmth to time. And art can—when it goes well—give shape to that memory, even fix it in history. Much as Van Gogh inscribed the figure of a country mailman on our collective memory so well that he lives on, even today.

For the next two hours, we focused on our respective jobs without exchanging a word.

Thinning the paint with linseed oil, I began by roughing in her form in a single color. That would be the portrait’s underdrawing. Mariye sat quietly in the chair, continuing to be herself. At noon, as they did every day, chimes rang in the distance, announcing that our time was up. I put down my palette and paintbrush, straightened my back, and stretched. Only then did I realize how tired I was. I took a deep breath to break my concentration, whereupon Mariye finally let her body relax.

The monochrome outline of Mariye’s head and shoulders was there on the canvas before me. This was the structure upon which the portrait would be built. It was skeletal, but at its core was the source of the heat that made her who she was. That was still hidden, but if I could grasp its general location I would be able to make adjustments further down the line. Then all that would be left was fleshing out the skeleton.

Mariye didn’t ask anything about what I had painted, nor did she ask to see it. I said little on my part, as well. I was just too worn out. We left the studio together and moved to the living room without a word. Shoko was still absorbed in her paperback. She marked her spot, closed the book, removed her black-rimmed reading glasses, and looked up at us. I could see that she was a bit alarmed. Our fatigue must have been written on our faces.

“Did it go all right?” she asked in a slightly worried tone.

“We’re only partway through the process, but we’re right on schedule.”

“That’s so good to hear,” she said. “Would you mind if I made some nice hot tea? I’ve already set the water to boil. And I know where you keep the tea leaves.”

Taken somewhat aback, I glanced down at her. Her lips were curved in a refined smile.

“I fear I’m being a poor host, but yes, that would be wonderful,” I said. I was dying for some hot tea, but getting up and going to the kitchen to boil water was beyond me. I was exhausted. It had been ages since I’d gotten so tired painting. It felt good, though.

Shoko returned to the living room ten minutes later with three cups and a pot on a tray. We sat there quietly, each drinking our black tea. Mariye hadn’t uttered a word since we left the studio. Every so often she’d reach up to push the hair back from her forehead. She had put her heavy jacket on again. As if she needed it to protect her from something.

The three of us sat there politely sipping our tea (not one of us slurped) and enjoying the lazy flow of the Sunday afternoon. No one spoke. The silence was easy and unforced, as if in accordance with the laws of nature. At a certain point, I heard a familiar sound, like waves on a distant shore, a listless and reluctant, yet somehow obligatory, lapping. Soon, however, the sound took on the unmistakable rhythm of a well-tuned engine. An eight-cylinder, 4.2-liter engine with power to spare burning (most elegantly, of course) high-octane fossil fuel. I got up from my chair, went to the window, and watched the approach of the silver car through a crack in the curtain.

Menshiki was wearing a lime-green cardigan over a cream-colored shirt. His pants were gray wool. They were clean and wrinkle-free, as if just back from the cleaners. None of his clothes appeared to be new—they all looked comfortably worn. That made them seem even cleaner. His hair, as always, was a glowing white. It seemed impervious to the seasons and the weather. I guessed that in summer or in winter, on sunny or cloudy days, its radiance would never fade. Only its tone would vary.

Menshiki got out of the car, closed the door, and looked up at the cloudy sky. He thought about the weather for a moment (at least that’s how it looked to me), composed himself, and walked slowly to the front door. Then he rang the doorbell. Slowly and deliberately, like a poet selecting the precise word for a crucial passage. However you looked at it, though, it was just a common old doorbell.

I opened the door and showed Menshiki into the living room. Smiling, he greeted the two women. Shoko rose to welcome him. Mariye remained on the sofa, twirling her hair. She barely glanced his way. At my bidding, we all sat down. Would you like some tea, I asked Menshiki. Please don’t bother, he replied, shaking his head several times and waving his hand in refusal.

“How is your work going?” he asked me.

Moving along as usual, I replied.

“Modeling is tiring, isn’t it?” Menshiki asked Mariye. I couldn’t remember him addressing her while looking her in the eye before. His tone was still a bit tense, but today at least he wasn’t paling or blushing in her presence. His face looked almost normal. He was doing a good job controlling his emotions. I bet he’d been training hard to pull that off.

Mariye didn’t answer. She seemed to mumble something, but it was entirely inaudible. Her hands were clasped tightly on her knees.

“You know she really looks forward to coming here Sunday mornings,” Shoko remarked, breaking the silence.

“Modeling is hard work,” I said, doing my humble best to back her up. “Mariye is doing a great job.”

“I served as a model here for a while,” Menshiki said. “I found it odd somehow. There were times it felt like my soul was being stolen from me.” He laughed.

“It’s not like that at all,” Mariye said, in what was little more than a whisper.

The three of us turned in her direction.

Shoko looked as though she had popped something she shouldn’t have into her mouth and bitten down on it. Menshiki’s face registered unadulterated curiosity. I remained, as ever, the impartial observer.

“What do you mean?” asked Menshiki.

“Nothing’s being stolen from me,” Mariye said in a monotone. “I’m giving something, and I’m getting something in return.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Menshiki said quietly. He seemed impressed. “I was being too simplistic. There has to be an exchange. Artistic creation can never be a one-way street.”

Mariye was silent, her eyes fixed on the teapot on the table. She looked like a lone night heron motionless on the shore, glaring at the water’s surface for hours on end. The teapot was simple white ceramic, the kind you can find anywhere. It was old (Tomohiko Amada had used it), and eminently practical, but apart from a small chip on the rim, nothing about it warranted close examination. Mariye just needed something to stare at right then.

The room fell silent. Like a blank, white billboard.

Artistic creation, I thought to myself. Those words had a pull to them that drew all the silence in the vicinity into a single spot. Like air filling a vacuum. No, more like a vacuum sucking up all the air.

“If you’re coming to my house,” Menshiki said gingerly, facing Shoko, “then perhaps we should go in my car. I’ll bring you back here afterward. The backseat is a bit cramped, but the drive is so full of twists and turns—you’ll find this much easier.”

“Of course,” Shoko said at once. “We’ll ride in your car.”