Харуки Мураками - Killing Commendatore

Naturally at the time I never imagined that this person would soon enter my life and change its direction entirely. Without him, none of the events that happened to me would have ever taken place. At the same time, if he hadn’t been there I might very well have lost my life in the darkness, with no one ever the wiser.

Our lives really do seem strange and mysterious when you look back on them. Filled with unbelievably bizarre coincidences and unpredictable, zigzagging developments. While they are unfolding, it’s hard to see anything weird about them, no matter how closely you pay attention to your surroundings. In the midst of the everyday, these things may strike you as simply ordinary things, a matter of course. They might not be logical, but time has to pass before you can see if something is logical.

Generally speaking, whether something is logical or isn’t, what’s meaningful about it are the effects. Effects are there for anyone to see, and can have a real influence. But pinpointing the cause that produced the effect isn’t easy. It’s even harder to show people something concrete that caused it, in a “Look, see?” kind of way. Of course there is a cause somewhere. Can’t be an effect without a cause. You can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs. Like falling dominoes, one domino (cause) knocks over the adjacent domino (cause), which then knocks over the domino (cause) next to it. As this sequence continues on and on, you no longer know what was the original cause. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Or people don’t care to know. And the story comes down to “What happened was, a lot of dominoes fell over.” The story I’ll be telling here may very well follow a similar route.

In any case, the first things I want to describe—the first two dominoes I have to bring up, in other words—are the mysterious neighbor who lived on the mountaintop across the valley, and the painting titled Killing Commendatore . I’ll start with the painting.

The first thing I found odd after I moved into the house was the utter lack of any paintings. Not only were none hanging on the walls, but there wasn’t a single painting of any kind even stuffed away in a shed or closet. No paintings by Tomohiko Amada, but none by any other artists either. Every wall was bare, with no traces even of nails that might have once been used to hang paintings. Artists almost always had at least some paintings around them—their own paintings, or those by other artists. Before they knew what had hit them, they’d be surrounded by all kinds of paintings, like when you endlessly shovel the snow but it keeps on piling up.

Once when I called Masahiko about something else, I happened to raise the topic. How come there’s not a painting of any kind in this house? Did somebody take them away, or there weren’t any to begin with?

“My father didn’t like keeping his own paintings around,” Masahiko said. “He’d call up his art dealers when he finished a work and leave it with them. If he wasn’t happy with a painting, he burned it in the incinerator in the yard. So it’s not so strange that there’s not a single one of his paintings there.”

“He didn’t own any paintings by other artists either?”

“He owned a handful. An old Matisse or Braque and the like. All of them small paintings he bought in Europe before the war. He got them from acquaintances, and they weren’t so expensive at the time. Now, of course, they would bring a hefty price. When he went into the nursing home I took all those paintings to an art dealer I know and let him handle them. Can’t leave them sitting there in an empty house now, can I? I imagine they’re in a special air-conditioned art storage warehouse. Apart from those, I’ve never seen any other artists’ works in the house. To tell the truth, my father didn’t much like other artists. And they didn’t like him either. A lone wolf, you might call him, or if we’re not being nice about it, a misfit.”

“Your father was in Vienna from 1936 to 1939, wasn’t he?”

“Right, he was there for about two years. I don’t know why he chose Vienna, since the artists he liked were mainly French.”

“And then he returned to Japan and suddenly switched to Japanese-style paintings,” I said. “Why do you think he made such a monumental decision? Did something unusual happen while he was abroad?”

“Hmm. It’s a mystery. My father never spoke much about his time in Vienna. Occasionally he’d talk about things nobody cared about—the Vienna zoo, or food, or the opera house. But when it came to talking about himself, he was a man of few words. And I never dared to ask him. We mostly lived apart, and rarely saw each other. He was less like a father to me than an uncle who came to visit every once in a while. When I got to junior high he seemed even more annoying, and I avoided contact with him. When I went into the art institute, too, I never consulted him about it. It’s not like our family was complicated, though it wasn’t exactly a normal family either. You get the general idea?”

“I do.”

“Anyway, my father’s memories of the past are all gone now. Or have sunk away into deep mud. He won’t answer you, no matter what you ask. He doesn’t even know who I am. Probably doesn’t even know who he is. Sometimes I think I should have asked all kinds of things before he got this way. Well, it’s too late now.”

Masahiko was silent for a time, lost in thought. “Why do you want to know that?” he finally asked. “Did something spark an interest in him?”

“Not particularly,” I said. “It’s just that, living in this house, I sense something like your father’s shadow lurking about. I also did a little research into his life at the library.”

“My father’s shadow?”

“Like a reminder of his existence, maybe.”

“Don’t you find that a little creepy?”

Over the phone I shook my head. “No. Not at all. It’s just like the presence of Tomohiko Amada is still hovering over things. Like it’s in the air.”

Masahiko was lost in thought again. “My father lived in that house for a long time, and did a lot of work there,” he said, “so maybe his presence remains. Who knows? To tell the truth, that’s why I don’t want to go near the place.”

I listened without comment.

“Like I said before,” he went on, “to me, Tomohiko Amada was basically just a grouchy old man I knew. Always holed up in his studio, painting, with a sour look on his face. He didn’t talk much, so I had no idea what was on his mind. When we were under the same roof my mom always told me, ‘Don’t bother your father when he’s working.’ I couldn’t run around or yell or anything. The world saw him as a famous artist, but to a little kid, he was simply a pain. Plus when I decided to go into art myself, having him as a father was a burden. Every time I introduced myself people would ask if I was related to Tomohiko Amada. I even thought about changing my name. I realize now he wasn’t such a bad person, really. I suppose he showed me affection in his own way. Though he wasn’t the type to show unconditional love toward a child. But that can’t be helped. Painting was always his top priority. That’s what artists are like.”

“I suppose so,” I said.

“I could never be an artist,” Masahiko said with a sigh. “That might be the only thing I learned from my father.”

“Didn’t you tell me before that when he was young he was pretty wild and did whatever he liked?”

“By the time I was big, he wasn’t like that anymore, but when he was young he played around a lot apparently. He was tall, good-looking, a young guy from a wealthy family, and a talented painter. How could women not be drawn to him? And he was certainly fond of the ladies. Rumor is that he had some affairs that his family had to pay to clear up. But my relatives said that after he returned from his time abroad, he was a different person.”