Харуки Мураками - Killing Commendatore

“Are you all right?” Menshiki called down.

“Menshiki?”

“Yes, it’s me,” Menshiki said. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m all right,” I said. My voice had returned. “I think,” I added.

“How long have you been down there?”

“I don’t know. It just happened.”

“Can you climb the ladder if I lower it to you?”

“I think so,” I said. Probably.

“Wait just a minute. I’ll go get it.”

My eyes began to adjust to the sunlight as I waited. I still couldn’t open them all the way, but at least I didn’t have to cover them with my hands. As luck would have it, it wasn’t that bright. I could tell it was daytime, but the sky was probably blanketed with clouds. Or else dusk was approaching. At last, I heard the metal ladder being lowered.

“Please give me a little more time,” I said. “My eyes aren’t used to the light, so I have to be careful.”

“Of course, take all the time you want,” said Menshiki.

“Why was the pit so dark? There was no light at all.”

“I covered it two days ago. It looked like someone had been monkeying with the lid, so I brought a heavy tarp from my house and tied it down with metal pegs and twine so it wouldn’t budge. I didn’t want a child to slip and fall in. I checked first to be sure no one was inside. It was empty then, I’m sure of it.”

It made perfect sense. Menshiki had covered the lid. That’s why it had been so dark.

“There were no signs that anyone had tampered with the tarp. It was just as I left it. So how did you get in? I don’t understand,” Menshiki said.

“I don’t understand either,” I said. “It just happened.”

There was nothing more I could tell him. And I had no intention of trying to explain, either.

“Shall I come down?” Menshiki asked.

“No, please stay where you are. I’ll come up.”

I could keep my eyes half open now. Mysterious images were churning behind them, but at least my mind was functioning. I lined up the ladder against the wall, put my foot on the lowest rung, and tried to push myself up. But my legs were weak. They didn’t feel like my legs at all. Still, I was able to gingerly climb up the ladder, one rung at a time. The air grew fresher the closer I got to the surface. I could hear birds chirping.

When I reached the top, Menshiki took my wrist in an iron grip and pulled me out. He was much stronger than I expected. Strong enough that I gave myself over to his hands without a second thought. Gratitude was all I felt. Out of the hole, I flopped onto my back and looked up at the dim sky. Sure enough, it was covered by gray clouds. I couldn’t tell the time of day. Tiny pellets of rain struck my cheeks and forehead. I found the irregular way they landed on my face exhilarating. I had never realized what a blessing rain could be. It was so full of life. Even the first cold rain of winter.

“I’m starving. And thirsty. And cold. I’m freezing,” I said. That’s all I could get out. My teeth were chattering.

Menshiki guided me through the woods, his arm wrapped around my shoulder. I was having a hard time putting one foot in front of the other—by the end, he was pulling me along. He was a lot more powerful than he looked. Those daily workouts of his were paying off.

“Do you have the key?” Menshiki asked.

“It’s under the potted plant to the right of the front door. Probably.” The “probably” was necessary. Nothing in this world could be stated with absolute certainty. I was still shaking with cold. The chattering of my teeth was so loud I could barely hear myself talk.

“You’ll be happy to hear Mariye returned home safe and sound early this afternoon,” Menshiki said. “What a relief. I got a call from Shoko about an hour ago. I’d been calling you, but no one ever picked up. That worried me, so I came over. I could hear the faint ring of a bell coming from the woods. So on a hunch, I came out and removed the tarp.”

The view opened up as we emerged from the trees. I could see Menshiki’s silver Jaguar parked demurely in front of my house. It was as spotless as ever.

“Why is your car always so beautiful?” I asked Menshiki. Not a fitting question under the circumstances, perhaps, but something I had long wanted to ask.

“I don’t know,” he said in a disinterested tone. “Maybe it’s because I wash it when I have nothing else to do. From front to back. Then once a month, a pro comes and waxes it. And my garage protects it from the elements. That’s all.”

That’s all? If my poor Toyota Corolla wagon heard that, after six months spent languishing in wind and rain, its shoulders would sag in dismay. It might even pass out.

Menshiki took the key from under the flowerpot and opened the door.

“By the way, what day of the week is it?” I asked him.

“Today? Today is Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? Are you sure?”

Menshiki double-checked his memory. “I put out the empty bottles and cans yesterday, so it must have been Monday. Therefore today is Tuesday, without a doubt.”

It had been Saturday when I had visited Tomohiko Amada’s room. So three days had passed. It wouldn’t have surprised me had it been three weeks, or three months, or even three years. I made a mental note. I rubbed my jaw with my palm. But there was no three-day stubble. Instead, my chin was smooth. What explained that?

Menshiki took me to the bath straightaway. He put me in a hot shower and brought me a fresh change of clothes. The clothes I had been wearing were tattered and filthy. I rolled them up in a ball and threw them in the garbage. There were red contusions all over my body but no visible injuries. I wasn’t bleeding.

Then he led me to the kitchen, sat me down, and slowly fed me water. By the end I had drained a big bottle of mineral water. While I was drinking he found several apples in the fridge and peeled them. I just sat there, admiring his skill with a knife. The plate of peeled apples looked beautiful, elegant even.

I ate three or four apples in all. It was a moving experience—I had never realized how delicious apples were. I wanted to thank their creator for inventing such a marvelous fruit. When I finished the apples, Menshiki dug up a carton of crackers and gave it to me. I emptied the box. The crackers were a bit soggy, but they still tasted like the best in the world. In the meantime, he boiled water, made tea, and mixed it with honey. I drank a number of cups. The tea and honey warmed me from the inside.

There wasn’t much in my fridge. It was, however, well stocked with eggs.

“How about an omelet?” Menshiki asked.

“I’d love one,” I said. I needed to fill my stomach—anything would do.

Menshiki took four eggs from the fridge, broke them in a bowl, whipped them with chopsticks, and added milk, salt, and pepper. Then he whipped them again. It was clear he knew what he was doing. Then he turned on the gas, chose a small frying pan, and melted some butter in it. He located a spatula in one of my drawers and deftly cooked the omelet.

His technique was remarkable, as I would have expected. He could have been featured on a TV cooking show. Housewives across the nation would have sighed with envy. When it came to omelets—when it came to anything, I should say—Menshiki was precise, efficient, and incredibly stylish. I could only look on in admiration. He slid the finished omelet onto a plate and gave it to me with a dollop of ketchup.

The finished omelet was so beautiful I wanted to sketch it. But instead I grabbed my knife and started eating. The omelet wasn’t just pretty to look at—it was delicious.

“This omelet is perfection,” I said.

Menshiki laughed. “Not really. I’ve made better.”