Харуки Мураками - Killing Commendatore

“So what’s the point of your story?”

“The point is,” Masahiko said, “it still may be possible for you and Yuzu to get back together. Assuming that’s what you want, of course.”

“But she’s about to have another man’s child.”

“Yeah, I can see that might be a problem.”

We fell silent again.

Tomohiko Amada woke up shortly before three. His body twitched at first. Then he took a deep breath—I could see the quilt over his chest rise and fall. Masahiko stood and went to his father’s bedside. He looked down on his face. The old man’s eyes slowly opened. His bushy white eyebrows quivered in the air.

Masahiko took a slender glass funnel cup from the bedside table and moistened his father’s lips. He mopped the corners of his mouth with a piece of what looked like gauze. His father wanted more, so he repeated the process several times. He seemed comfortable with the job—it appeared that he had done it many times before. The old man’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down with each swallow. Only when I saw that movement was I sure he was still alive.

“Father,” Masahiko said, pointing at me. “This is the guy who moved into the Odawara house. He’s a painter who’s working in your studio. He’s a friend of mine from college. He’s not too bright, and his beautiful wife ran out on him, but he’s still a great artist.”

It wasn’t clear how much Masahiko’s father comprehended. But he slowly turned his head in my direction as if following his son’s finger. His face was blank. He seemed to be looking at something, but that something carried no particular meaning for him. Nevertheless, I thought I could detect a surprisingly clear and lucid light deep within those bleary eyes. That light seemed to be biding its time, waiting for that which might hold real significance. At least that was my impression.

“I doubt he understands a word I say,” Masahiko said. “But his doctor instructed us to talk to him in a free and natural way, as if he was able to follow. No one knows how much he’s picking up anyway. So I talk to him normally. That’s easier for me too. Now you say something. The way you usually talk.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Amada,” I said. I told him my name. “Your son has been kind enough to let me live in your home in Odawara.”

Tomohiko Amada was looking at me, but his expression hadn’t changed. Masahiko gestured: Just keep talking—anything is okay.

“I’m an oil painter,” I went on. “I specialized in portraits for a long time, but I gave that up and now I paint my own stuff. I still accept occasional commissions for portraits, though. The human face fascinates me, I guess. Masahiko and I have been friends since art school.”

Tomohiko Amada’s eyes were still pointed in my direction. They were coated by a thin membrane, a kind of layered lace curtain hanging between life and death. What sat behind the curtain would fade from view as the layers increased, until finally the last, heavy curtain would fall.

“I love your house,” I said. “My work is steadily progressing. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been listening to your records. Masahiko told me that was all right. You have a great collection. I enjoy the operas especially. Oh yes, and recently I went up and looked in the attic.”

I thought I saw a sparkle in his eyes when I said the word “attic.” It was just a quick flash—no one would have noticed it unless they were paying attention. But I was keeping close watch. Thus I didn’t miss it. Clearly, “attic” had a charge that caused some part of his memory to kick in.

“A horned owl has moved into the attic,” I went on. “I kept hearing these rustling sounds at night. I thought it was a rat, so I went up to check during the day. And there the owl was, sitting under the beams. It’s a beautiful bird. The screen on the air vent has a hole, so it can go in and out at will. The attic makes a perfect daytime hideout for a horned owl, don’t you think?”

The eyes were still fixed on me. As if waiting to hear more.

“Horned owls don’t cause any damage,” Masahiko put in. “In fact, they’re said to bring good luck.”

“I love the bird,” I added. “And the attic is a fascinating place too.”

Tomohiko Amada stared at me from the bed, not moving a muscle. His breathing had turned shallow again. That thin membrane still coated his eyes, but the secret light within seemed to have brightened.

I wanted to talk more about the attic, but Masahiko was beside me, so there was no way I could bring up what I had found there. It would only prick Masahiko’s curiosity. So I let the topic hang in the air while Tomohiko Amada and I stared into each other’s eyes.

I chose my words with care. “The attic suits owls, but it might suit paintings too. It could be a perfect place to store them. Japanese-style paintings, especially—they’re really tricky to preserve. Attics aren’t damp like basements—they’re well ventilated, and you don’t have to worry about sunlight. Of course, there’s always the danger of wind and rain getting in, but if you wrap it up carefully enough a painting should keep for quite a while up there.”

“You know, I’ve never even looked in the attic,” Masahiko said. “Dusty places creep me out.”

I was watching Tomohiko Amada’s face. His gaze was fixed on me as well. I felt him trying to construct a coherent line of thought. Owl, attic, stored paintings… these familiar words all needed to be strung together. In his current state, this was no easy thing. No easy thing at all . Like trying to pick through a labyrinth blindfolded. But I sensed that making those connections was important to him. Extremely important. I stood by quietly watching him concentrate on that urgent yet solitary task.

I considered bringing up the shrine in the woods, and the strange pit behind it. To describe to him the steps that had led to it being opened, and the shape of its interior. But I changed my mind. I shouldn’t give him too much to think about at one time. His level of awareness was so diminished that even one topic placed a heavy burden on his shoulders. What little he had left hung by a single, easily severed thread.

“Would you like more water?” Masahiko asked, funnel cup in hand. But his father didn’t react. It was as if he hadn’t heard his son’s question. Masahiko drew nearer and asked again, but when his father still didn’t respond, he gave up. The son was invisible in his father’s eyes.

“Dad seems to have taken a real shine to you,” Masahiko marveled. “He can’t stop looking at you. It’s been quite a while since anyone or anything held his interest like this.”

I continued to look into Tomohiko Amada’s eyes.

“It’s strange. When I talk to him he won’t turn to me, no matter what I say, but in your case he won’t turn away. His eyes are riveted on you.”

I couldn’t help notice a mild envy in Masahiko’s voice. He wanted his father to see him. That had probably been a common theme in his life, ever since childhood.

“Maybe he smells paint on me,” I said. “The smell may be triggering his memories.”

“You’re right, that could be it. Come to think of it, it’s been ages since I touched actual paint.”

Regret no longer tinged his words. He was back to being the same old easygoing Masahiko. Just then, his cell phone began buzzing on the table.

Masahiko looked up with a start. “Damn, I forgot to turn the thing off. Cell phones are against the rules in this place. I’ll have to go outside. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” I said.

Masahiko picked up the cell phone and walked to the door. “This may take a while,” he said, checking the caller’s name on his screen. “Please talk to my father while I’m gone.”