Харуки Мураками - Killing Commendatore

I couldn’t predict if Menshiki would accept this painting as his portrait . It might be light-years away from the kind of painting he’d been expecting. He’d told me to paint it any way I liked, and didn’t have any special requests about the style it was done in. But just possibly , there might be some element in the painting, something negative, that he himself didn’t want to recognize. Not that I could do anything about that now. Whether he liked the painting or not, it was already out of my hands, beyond my will.

Seated on the stool, I kept staring at the portrait for nearly another half hour. I had painted it, that much I knew, but the end product outstripped the bounds of any logic or understanding I possessed. How had I painted something like that? I couldn’t even recall now. I stared dumbfounded at the painting, my feelings swinging from intimacy to total alienation. But one thing was sure—the colors and form were perfect.

Maybe I was on the verge of finding an exit, I thought. Finally able to pass through the thick wall that stood in my way. But still, things had only begun. I had only just managed to grasp a kind of clue as to how to proceed. I would have to be extremely careful. Telling myself this, I went over to the sink and methodically cleaned the paint from the brushes and painting knife. I washed my hands with oil and soap. Then I went to the kitchen and drank several glasses of water. I was parched.

All well and good, but who had moved the stool in the studio? (It had most definitely been moved.) And who had spoken in my ear in that strange voice? (I had clearly heard the voice.) And who had suggested to me what was missing from the painting? (A suggestion that had clearly been effective.)

In all likelihood it was me—I’d done this myself. I’d unconsciously moved the stool, and given myself the suggestion about how to proceed. In a strange, roundabout way I must have freely intertwined my conscious and subconscious… I couldn’t think of any other explanation. Though of course this couldn’t be the case.

At eleven, I was seated on a straight-backed chair, sipping hot tea and randomly mulling over things, when Menshiki’s silver Jaguar drove up. I’d been so wrapped up in painting that the appointment we’d made the day before had completely slipped my mind. Not to mention the auditory illusion, or the voice I must have imagined.

Menshiki? Why is he here?

“I’d really like to take a good look at the stone chamber again if I could,” Menshiki had said over the phone. As I listened to the now familiar growl of the V8 engine come to a halt, it all came back to me.

Iwent outside to greet Menshiki. It was the first time I’d done so. I didn’t have any particular reason, it just turned out that way. I wanted to get outside, stretch my legs, breathe some fresh air.

Those round slate-shaped clouds still floated in the sky. Lots of these clouds formed far off in the sea, then were slowly carried on the southwest wind, one by one, toward the mountains. Did those beautiful, perfect circles form naturally, not from any practical design? It was a mystery. For a meteorologist maybe it was no mystery at all, but it was for me. Living on this mountaintop, I found myself attracted to all sorts of natural wonders.

Menshiki had on a collared dark-red sweater, light and elegant. And well-worn jeans, so light blue they looked ready to fade away. The jeans were straight leg, made of soft material. To me (and I might be overthinking things) he always seemed to intentionally wear colors that made his white hair stand out. This dark-red sweater went very well with his white hair. His hair always was at just the right length. I had no idea how he kept it that way, but it was never any longer or shorter than it was right now.

“I’d like to go and look into the pit right away, if it’s okay with you?” Menshiki asked. “See if anything’s changed.”

“Okay by me,” I said. I hadn’t been back, either, in the woods since that day. I wanted to see how things were, too.

“Sorry to bother you, but could you bring me the bell?” Menshiki asked.

I went inside, took down the ancient bell from the studio shelf, and returned.

Menshiki took a large flashlight from the trunk of his Jaguar and hung it from a strap around his neck. He set off for the woods, me tagging along. The woods seemed even a deeper color than before. In this season, every day brought changes to the mountains. Some trees were redder, others dyed a deeper yellow, and some stayed forever green. The combination was truly beautiful. Menshiki, though, didn’t seem to care.

“I looked into the background of this land a little,” he said while he walked. “Who owned it up till now, what it was used for, that sort of thing.”

“Did you find out something?”

Menshiki shook his head. “No, next to nothing. I was expecting that it might have been some religious site, but according to what I found that wasn’t the case. I couldn’t find out any background as to why there would be a small shrine and stone tumulus here. It was apparently just an ordinary piece of mountainous land. Then it was partly cleared and a house was built. Tomohiko Amada purchased the land along with the house in 1955. Prior to that, a politician had used it as a mountain retreat. You probably haven’t heard of him, but he held a Cabinet position back before the war. After the war he essentially lived in retirement. I couldn’t trace back who owned the place before that.”

“It’s a little strange that a politician would go to the trouble of having a vacation home in such a remote place.”

“A lot of politicians had retreats here back then. Prince Fumimaro Konoe, prime minister just before World War Two, had a summer retreat just a couple of mountains over from here. It’s on the way to Hakone and Atami, and must have been a perfect spot for people to gather for secret talks. It’s hard to keep it secret when VIPs get together in Tokyo.”

We moved the thick boards that lay covering the hole.

“I’m going to go down inside,” Menshiki said. “Would you wait for me?”

“I’ll be here,” I said.

Menshiki climbed down the mental ladder the contractor had left for us. The ladder creaked a bit with each step. I watched him from above. When he got to the bottom he took the flashlight from around his neck, switched it on, and carefully checked his surroundings. He rubbed the stone wall, and pounded his fist against it.

“This wall is solidly made, and pretty intricate,” Menshiki said, looking up at me. “I don’t think it’s just some well that’s been filled in halfway. If it was a well, it would just be a lot of stones piled up on top of each other. They wouldn’t have done such a meticulous job.”

“You think it was built for some other purpose?”

Menshiki shook his head, indicating that he had no idea. “Anyway, the wall is made so you can’t easily climb out. There aren’t any spaces to get a foothold. The hole’s less than nine feet deep, but scrambling to the top wouldn’t be an easy feat.”

“You mean it was built that way, to be hard to climb up?”

Menshiki shook his head again. He didn’t know. No clue.

“I’d like you to do something for me,” Menshiki said.

“What would that be?”

“Would it be an imposition for you to pull up the ladder, and put the cover on tight so no light gets in?”

That left me speechless.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry,” Menshiki said. “I’d like to experience what it’s like to be shut up here, in the bottom of the dark pit, by myself. No plans to turn into a mummy yet, though.”