Харуки Мураками - Killing Commendatore

“Don’t you ever get bored?”

Menshiki smiled. “I can’t remember ever being bored. I’ve been too busy.”

I could only shake my head in admiration.

“How about you?” he asked. “Have you ever been bored?”

“Of course. It happens a lot. In my case, however, boredom is an indispensable part of life.”

“Don’t you find it painful?”

“I guess I’ve gotten used to it. So it doesn’t feel like pain.”

“I bet that’s because painting is so central to your existence. That’s your core—your passion to create is born out of what you call boredom. Without that core, I’m sure you’d find boredom unendurable.”

“So you’re not working these days, are you?”

“That’s right, I’m basically retired. I do a little computer trading on the stock markets, as I’ve told you, but that’s not out of necessity. It’s more like a game, a form of mental discipline.”

“And you live in that big house all by yourself.”

“Correct.”

“And you still never get bored?”

Menshiki shook his head. “I have so many things to occupy my mind. Books I should read, music I should listen to. Data to gather, sort, and analyze. I’m used to staying active—it’s a daily habit. I work out too, and when I need a change of pace, I practice the piano. And there’s housework, of course. I haven’t time to be bored.”

“Don’t you ever worry about growing old? About becoming a lonely old man?”

“No question, I will age,” Menshiki said. “My body will decline, and I’ll probably grow more and more solitary. But I’m not there yet. I have an idea what it will be like. But I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t believe something until he’s seen it. So I have to wait until it’s sitting right in front of me. I’m not especially afraid of aging. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it, but I am a little curious.”

Menshiki slowly swirled the whiskey in his glass.

“How about you?” he asked, looking me in the eye. “Are you afraid of getting old?”

“I was married for six years, and it didn’t turn out so well. I didn’t paint a single painting for myself during all that time. I guess people would say I squandered those years. After all, I was turning out one painting after another of a sort I don’t especially like. Yet, in a way, maybe I was fortunate to have gone through that. That’s how I feel these days.”

“I think I understand what you’re trying to say. That there’s a time in life when you have to discard your ego. Is that it?”

Perhaps, I thought. But maybe in my case it simply took me that long to discover what I’d been lugging around all that time. Had I dragged Yuzu along on that pointless, roundabout journey?

Am I afraid of growing old? I wondered to myself. Did I dread the advent of old age?

“I still have a hard time imagining it,” I said. “It may sound foolish for a man in his mid-thirties to say this, but I feel as if my life is just beginning.”

“That’s not foolish at all,” Menshiki said, smiling. “You’re probably right—you’re just getting started.”

“You mentioned genes a few minutes ago,” I said. “That you felt you’re just a vehicle receiving a set of genes from one generation and transmitting it to the next. And beyond that duty, you’re no more than a clod of earth. Right?”

Menshiki nodded. “That’s what I said.”

“But you don’t find being a clod of earth particularly frightening, do you?”

“I may be a clod of earth,” Menshiki said, laughing, “but as clods go I’m pretty good. It may sound conceited, but I think I may even be a superior clod. I’ve been blessed with certain abilities. Those have limits, I know, but they’re abilities nonetheless. That’s why I go all out in whatever I do. I want to stretch myself as far as I can, to see what I’m capable of. I have no time to be bored. That’s the best way I know of keeping fear and emptiness at arm’s length.”

We drank until almost eight o’clock, at which point the bottle ran out. Menshiki stood up to leave.

“I should be on my way,” he said. “I’ve imposed on you for too long.”

I called for a taxi. “Tomohiko Amada’s house” was all it took to identify our location. He was a famous man. The dispatcher said it would be fifteen minutes. I thanked him and hung up.

Menshiki used that time to tell me something.

“I told you earlier that Mariye’s father had become deeply involved in a religious sect, didn’t I?” he began.

I nodded.

“Well, it turns out that it’s one of the new religions, and a shady one at that. I checked online and found out they’ve got a really bad track record. A number of civil suits have been filed against them. Their so-called doctrine is a pile of rubbish unworthy of the name ‘religion.’ Of course, Mr. Akikawa is free to subscribe to whatever beliefs he likes. That goes without saying. But he has sunk quite a lot of money into this group. His money, company money. He had considerable wealth in the beginning, was able to manage on the monthly rents he collected. But there was a clear limit to how much he could withdraw without selling property and other assets. Now he’s way past that limit—he’s sold a lot of those. Clearly, an unhealthy situation. Like an octopus trying to survive by devouring its own legs.”

“Are you saying he’s being preyed on by that cult?”

“Exactly. He’s a real pigeon. When a group like that squeezes you, they take everything they can get. Right down to the last drop. Forgive me for saying so, but Mr. Akikawa’s privileged upbringing may make him more vulnerable to that kind of thing.”

“So you’re concerned about this situation.”

Menshiki sighed. “It’s Mr. Akikawa’s responsibility how he ends up. He’s a mature adult, aware of his actions. It’s not so simple for his family, though—they have no idea what’s going on. Not that my worrying about them will make a bit of difference.”

“The study of reincarnation,” I said.

“It’s a fascinating hypothesis,” Menshiki said. He quietly shook his head.

The taxi finally arrived. Before getting in, he offered a most courteous thanks. His complexion and his decorum were a constant, no matter how much he drank.

After Menshiki left, I brushed my teeth, climbed into bed, and fell asleep immediately. I drop off in no time at all under normal circumstances, and whiskey only accentuates that tendency.

In the middle of the night, however, a loud sound jolted me awake. I think the sound was real. Possibly, though, it took place in my dream. Its source could have been my own unconscious. Whatever its origins, it was a huge crash, as though an earthquake had struck. The impact lifted me into the air. That part was real, for sure, not a dream or a product of my imagination. I had been fast asleep, and now, an instant later, I was on the verge of tumbling from my bed, my mind on high alert.

According to the clock on the bedside table, it was past two. The time of night when the bell had usually rung. But I could not hear a bell. With winter approaching, there were no insect voices. A deep hush had fallen over the house. Outside, thick, dark clouds covered the sky. If I listened hard enough, I could hear the wind.

I felt for the lamp, switched it on, and slipped a sweater over my pajamas. I would take a quick look around the house. Something very strange had happened, or so it seemed. Had a wild boar crashed through one of the windows? Or had a small meteorite hit the roof? Probably not, but it was still a good idea to make sure. I was, after all, the caretaker of the house. And I would have a hard time falling back to sleep if I didn’t find out. The crash had left me wide awake, my heart pounding.