Харуки Мураками - Killing Commendatore

Her movements became increasingly frenzied. There was nothing he could do but make sure not to interfere with what she desired. They neared climax. He couldn’t hold back, and ejaculated, and in time with that she let out a short screech like some foreign bird, and her womb, as if waiting for that instant, greedily absorbed his semen. A muddied image occurred to him of himself, in the darkness, being devoured by a greedy beast.

After a while she stood up, as if pushing his body aside, and silently adjusted the hem of her dress, stuffed the stockings and panties that had fallen to the floor in her handbag, and hurried off to the bathroom, bag in hand. She didn’t come out for a long time. He was beginning to get worried that something had happened to her when she finally emerged. Her clothing and hair were neatly arranged now, her makeup redone. Her usual calm smile graced her lips.

She gave Menshiki a light peck on the lips, and told him she had to go, since she was already late. And she hurried out of the office, without looking back. He could still recall the click of her pumps as she left.

That was the last time he ever saw her. All contact ceased. He’d call her, and write, but never got a response. And two months later she got married. He heard about this from a mutual friend, after the fact. The friend found it odd that Menshiki was not invited to the wedding ceremony, and, in particular, that he had no idea she was getting married. He’d always thought that Menshiki and the woman were good friends (they’d always been very discreet about their relationship, and no one else had known they were lovers). Menshiki didn’t know the man she married. He had never even heard his name. She hadn’t told Menshiki she was planning to marry, nor even hinted at it. She just disappeared from his world without a word.

That violent embrace on the sofa at his office, Menshiki realized, must have been her final, farewell act of love. Afterward he went over those events, over and over in his mind. Even after a long time had passed, those memories remained amazingly distinct and clear. The creak of the sofa, her hair whirling around her, her hot breath in his ear—it all came back to him.

So did Menshiki regret losing her? Of course not. He wasn’t the type to have regrets. He knew very well he wasn’t suited to family life. No matter how much he loved someone, he still couldn’t share his life with them. He needed solitary time every day to concentrate, and he couldn’t stand it when someone’s presence threw off his concentration. If he lived with someone he knew he would end up detesting them. Whether it was his parents, a wife, or children. He feared that above all. He wasn’t afraid of loving someone. What he feared was growing to hate someone.

For all that, he had loved her very deeply. He’d never loved any other woman so deeply, and probably never would again. “Even now there’s a special spot inside me just for her,” Menshiki said. “A very real spot. You might even call it a shrine.”

A shrine? This struck me as an odd choice of words. But for him it was likely the right way of putting it.

Menshiki ended his story there. He’d told this private tale in great detail, yet I got little sense of it being sexual. It was more like he’d read aloud from a medical report. Or maybe it really was that sort of dispassionate experience for him.

“Seven months after the wedding she gave birth to a baby girl in a hospital in Tokyo,” Menshiki continued. “Thirteen years ago. I heard about this birth much later from someone.”

Menshiki stared down at his now empty coffee cup, as if nostalgic for some past age when it had been full of hot coffee.

“And that child might possibly be my own,” he said, seemingly forcing out the words. He looked at me, like he wanted to hear my opinion.

It took me a while to grasp what he was trying to say.

“Does the timeline fit?”

“It does. It coincides perfectly. The child was born nine months after she came to my office. She must have picked the day she was most fertile to come see me and—how should I put it?—deliberately gathered my sperm. That’s my working hypothesis. From the beginning she wasn’t expecting to marry me, but had decided to have my child. I figured that’s what happened.”

“But you can’t confirm that,” I said.

“Of course. At this point it’s merely a hypothesis. But I do have a sort of basis to say this.”

“That was a pretty risky experiment for her, wasn’t it?” I pointed out. “If the blood types didn’t match it might come out that the father was someone else. Would she risk that?”

“My blood is type A. Most Japanese are A, and I think she is too. As long as they didn’t have some reason to run a full-blown DNA test, the chances are slim that the secret would come out. That much she could figure out.”

“But on the other hand, unless you ran an official DNA test you wouldn’t be able to determine if you’re the girl’s biological father or not. Right? Or else you ask her mother directly.”

Menshiki shook his head. “It’s no longer possible to ask the mother. She died seven years ago.”

“That’s terrible. She was still so young,” I said.

“She was walking in the woods and was stung by hornets and died. She was allergic to them. By the time they got her to the hospital she’d stopped breathing. Nobody knew she was so allergic to their stings. Maybe she didn’t even know herself. She left behind her husband and daughter. Her daughter is thirteen now.”

About the same age my little sister was when she died, I thought.

“And you have some sort of basis for conjecturing that this girl is your daughter. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Some time after she died I suddenly received a letter from the deceased,” Menshiki said in a quiet voice.

One day a large envelope, with a return receipt, arrived at his office from a law firm he’d never heard of. Inside was a typed two-page letter (with the letterhead of the law firm) and a light pink envelope. The letter from the law firm was signed by a lawyer. The lawyer’s letter read: Ms. **** entrusted me with this letter while she was still alive. Ms. **** left instructions with me to send this letter to you in case of her death. She added a note to the effect that the letter should be for your eyes only.

That was the gist of the lawyer’s letter. The circumstances leading to her death were described simply, in a businesslike manner. Menshiki was speechless, but finally pulled himself together and snipped open the second envelope. The letter inside was handwritten in blue ink, on four sheets of stationery. The handwriting was exquisite.

Dear Mr. Menshiki,

I don’t know what month or year it is now, but if you are reading this it means I am no longer among the living. I’m not sure why, but I’ve always had the feeling I’d depart this world at a relatively young age. Which is why I made full preparations like this for after my death. If all this ends up being wasted, of course nothing could be better—but when all is said and done since you are reading this letter it means that I’ve already passed away. The thought leaves me very, very sad.

The first thing I’d like to say in advance (maybe it’s something I really don’t need to say) is that my life has never been of much consequence. I’m well aware of that. So it seems fitting for someone like me to quietly exit the world without making a big deal of things, without any uncalled-for pronouncements. But there is one thing I need to tell you alone. My conscience is telling me that if I don’t, I may forever lose the chance to treat you fairly. So I’ve left this letter with a lawyer I know and trust with instructions to pass it on to you.