Харуки Мураками - Killing Commendatore

Yoshinobu Akikawa turned into a rather morose man after his wife’s death. He hadn’t been particularly social or gregarious to begin with, and now his introverted side only grew stronger. His interest in spiritual things deepened, and he became involved with a religious sect whose name was unknown to me. It is said that at one point he spent some time in India. At great personal expense, he built a grand hall for the sect’s use on the outskirts of town, where he began spending much of his time. It’s not clear exactly what takes place there. But it appears that a daily regimen of stringent religious “austerities” and the study of reincarnation helped him find a new purpose in life after his wife’s death.

These activities reduced his involvement in the business, but his duties hadn’t been all that demanding in the first place. There were three longtime employees more than capable of managing things when the boss failed to show up. His visits home became more infrequent. When he did return it was usually just to sleep. His relationship with his only daughter had, for some reason, grown more distant after his wife’s death. Perhaps she reminded him of his dead wife. Or perhaps he had never really cared for children. In any case, as a result the child never really took to her father. The responsibility for looking after Mariye went to his younger sister, Shoko. She had taken leave from her job as secretary for the president of a medical college in Tokyo and moved to the house atop the mountain near Odawara on what she expected to be a temporary break to look after the child. In the end, though, the arrangement became permanent. Perhaps she came to love the girl. Or perhaps she couldn’t stand idly by when her little niece needed her so much.

Having reached that point in his account, Menshiki stopped to touch his fingers to his lips.

“Do you happen to have any whiskey in the house?” he asked.

“There’s about a half a bottle of single malt,” I said.

“I don’t want to impose, but could I have some? On the rocks.”

“My pleasure. But aren’t you driving?”

“I’ll call a cab,” he said. “No point in losing my license.”

I went to the kitchen and came back with a whiskey bottle, a ceramic bowl of ice, and two glasses. In the meantime, Menshiki put the record of Der Rosenkavalier that I had been listening to on the turntable. We sat back and listened to the lush strains of Richard Strauss as we sipped our whiskey.

“Are you a devotee of single malt?” Menshiki asked.

“No, this was a gift. A friend brought it. Sure tastes good, though.”

“I have a bottle of rare Scotch at home that a friend in Scotland sent to me. A single malt from the island of Islay. It’s from a cask sealed by the Prince of Wales himself on his visit to the distillery there. I’ll bring it on my next visit.”

“You needn’t make such a fuss on my account,” I said.

“There’s a small island near Islay called Jura,” he said. “Have you heard of it?”

“No,” I replied.

“It’s practically uninhabited. More deer than people. Lots of other wildlife, too—rabbits, pheasants, seals. And one very old distillery. There’s a spring of freshwater nearby, just perfect for making whiskey. If you mix the single malt with that water, the flavor is absolutely amazing. You can’t find it anywhere else.”

“It sounds delicious,” I said.

“Jura is also known as the place where George Orwell wrote 1984 . Orwell rented a small house on the northern end of the island, really the middle of nowhere, but the winter took a terrible toll on his body. It was a primitive place, with none of the modern amenities. I guess he needed that kind of Spartan environment to write. I spent a week on that island myself. Huddled next to the fireplace each night, drinking that marvelous whiskey.”

“Why did you spend a whole week in such an out-of-the-way place all by yourself?”

“Business,” Menshiki said simply. He smiled.

Apparently, he wasn’t going to let me in on what sort of business was involved. And I had no particular desire to find out.

“I really needed a drink today,” he said. “To settle myself down. That’s why I’m imposing on you like this. I’ll come and pick up my car tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.”

“Of course, I don’t mind at all.”

We sat there awhile without talking.

“Do you mind if I ask something personal?” Menshiki broke the silence. “I hope you won’t take offense.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not a guy who gets offended. I’ll answer you if I can.”

“You’ve been married, correct?”

I nodded. “Yes, I was married. As a matter of fact, I just mailed off the divorce papers, signed and sealed. So I’m not sure if I’m officially married now or not. Still, it’s safe to say that I was married. For six years.”

Menshiki was studying the ice cubes in his glass as if deep in thought.

“Sorry to pry,” he said. “But do you have any regrets about the way your marriage ended?”

I took another sip of whiskey. “How does one say ‘buyer beware’ in Latin?” I asked.

“ ‘Caveat emptor,’” Menshiki said without hesitation.

“I have a hard time remembering how to say it. But I know what it means.”

Menshiki laughed.

“Sure, I have regrets,” I replied. “But even if I could go back and rectify one of my mistakes, I doubt it would change the outcome.”

“Do you think there’s something in you that’s impervious to change, something that became a stumbling block in your marriage?”

“Perhaps it’s my lack of something impervious to change that was the stumbling block.”

“But you have the desire to paint. That must be closely connected to your appetite for life.”

“There may be something I have to get past first before I can really get started with my painting, though. That’s my feeling, anyway.”

“We all have ordeals we must face,” Menshiki said. “It’s through them that we find a new direction in our lives. The more grueling the ordeal, the more it can help us down the road.”

“As long as it doesn’t grind us into the ground.”

Menshiki smiled. He had finished his questions about my divorce.

I brought a jar of olives in from the kitchen to accompany our drinks. We nibbled on them while sipping our whiskey. When the record finished, Menshiki flipped it over. Georg Solti continued conducting the Vienna Philharmonic.

Menshiki has an ulterior motive for everything. Never wastes a move, that fellow. It is the only way he knows.

If the Commendatore was correct, what move was Menshiki making—or about to make—now? I hadn’t a clue. Perhaps he was holding back for the moment, waiting for his opportunity. He said that he had “no intention” of exploiting me. Probably he was speaking the truth. Yet intentions were, in the end, just intentions. He was a savvy guy who had managed to survive and thrive in the most cutting-edge sector of the business world. If he was harboring an ulterior motive, even if it was dormant now, it would be next to impossible for me to avoid getting sucked in.

“You’re thirty-six years old, right?” Menshiki said out of the blue.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“That’s the best age.”

I didn’t see it that way at all. But I didn’t say so.

“I’m fifty-four. Too old to be fighting on the front lines in the business I was in, but still a little too young to be considered a legend. That’s why you see me dawdling around like this.”

“Some become legends in their youth, though.”

“Sure, there are a few. But there’s no great merit in that. In fact, it could be a real nightmare. Once you’re considered a legend, you can only trace the pattern of your rise for the rest of your life. I can’t think of anything more boring than that.”