Харуки Мураками - Killing Commendatore

Tomorrow afternoon, I’d see the second girlfriend, the older married woman. We’d hold each other in bed and make love. So she was not just a passing shadow, but an actual presence with a three-dimensional body. Or perhaps a passing shadow with a three-dimensional body. I couldn’t decide which.

Menshiki called my name, and I came back to the present with a start. I’d been completely lost in thought, too.

“About the portrait,” Menshiki said.

I looked at him. His usual cool expression was back on his face. A handsome face, always calm and thoughtful, the kind that relaxed others.

“If you need me to pose for you, I wouldn’t mind doing it now,” he said. “Continue from where we left off, maybe? I’m always ready.”

I looked at him for a while. Pose? It finally dawned on me—he was talking about the portrait. I looked down, took a sip of the coffee, which had cooled down, and after gathering my thoughts, put the cup back on the saucer. A small, dry clatter reached my ears. I looked up, faced Menshiki, and spoke.

“I’m very sorry, but today I have to go teach at the arts-and-culture center.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Menshiki said. He glanced at his watch. “I’d totally forgotten. You teach art at the school near Odawara Station, don’t you. Do you need to leave soon?”

“I’m okay, I still have time,” I said. “And there’s something I need to talk with you about.”

“And what would that be?”

“Truthfully, the painting is already finished. In a sense.”

Menshiki frowned ever so slightly. He looked straight at me, as if checking out something deep inside my eyes.

“By painting, you mean my portrait?”

“Yes,” I said.

“That’s wonderful,” Menshiki said. A slight smile came to his face. “Really wonderful. But what did you mean by ‘in a sense’?”

“It’s hard to explain. I’ve never been good at explaining things.”

“Take your time and tell it to me the way you’d like to,” Menshiki said. “I’ll sit here and listen.”

I brought the fingers of both of my hands together on my lap.

Silence descended as I chose my words, the kind of silence that makes you hear the passing of time. Time passed very slowly on top of the mountain.

“I got the commission from you,” I said, “and did the painting with you as model. But to tell the truth, it’s not a portrait , no matter how you look at it. All I can say is it’s a work done with you as model . I can’t say how much value it has, as an artwork, or as a commodity. All I know for sure is it’s a work I had to paint . Beyond that I’m clueless. Truthfully, I’m pretty confused. Until things become clearer to me it might be best to keep the painting here and not give it to you. I’d like to return the advance you paid. And I am extremely sorry for having used so much of your valuable time.”

“In what way is it—not a portrait?” Menshiki asked, choosing his words deliberately.

“Up till now I’ve made my living as a professional portrait painter. Essentially in portraits you paint the subject the way he wishes to be portrayed. The subject is the client, and if he doesn’t like the finished work it’s entirely possible he might tell you, ‘I’m not going to pay money for this.’ So I try not to depict any negative aspects of the person. I pick only the good aspects, emphasize those, and try to make the subject appear in as good a light as I can. In that sense, in most cases it’s hard to call portraits works of art. Someone like Rembrandt being the exception, of course. But in this case, I didn’t think about you as I painted, but only about myself. To put it another way, I prioritized the ego of the artist—myself—over you, the subject.”

“Not a problem,” Menshiki said, smiling. “I’m actually happy to hear it. I told you I didn’t have any requests, and wanted you to paint it any way you liked.”

“I know. I remember it well. What I’m concerned about is less how the painting turned out and more about what I painted there . I put my own desires first, so much that I might have painted something I shouldn’t have. That’s what I’m worried about.”

Menshiki observed my face for a time, and then spoke. “You might have painted something inside me that you shouldn’t have. And you’re worried about that. Do I have that right?”

“That’s it,” I said. “Since all I thought of was myself, I loosened the restraints that should have been in place.”

And maybe extracted something from inside you that I shouldn’t have , I was about to say, but thought better of it. I kept those words inside.

Menshiki mulled over what I’d said.

“Interesting,” he finally said, sounding like he meant it. “A very intriguing way of looking at things.”

I was silent.

“I think my self-restraint is pretty strong,” Menshiki said. “I have a lot of self-control, I mean.”

“I know,” I said.

Menshiki lightly pressed his temple with his fingers, and smiled. “So that painting is finished, you’re saying? That portrait of me?”

I nodded. “I feel it’s finished.”

“That’s wonderful,” Menshiki said. “Can you show me the painting? After I’ve actually seen it, the two of us can discuss how to proceed. Does that sound all right?”

“Of course,” I said.

I led Menshiki to the studio. He stood about six feet in front of the easel, arms folded, and stared at the painting. There was the portrait that he’d posed for. No, less a portrait than what you might call an image that formed when a mass of paint hit the canvas. The white hair was a violent burst of pure white. At first glance it didn’t look like a face. What should be found in a face was hidden behind a mass of color. Yet beyond any doubt, the reality of Menshiki the person was present. Or at least I thought so.

He stood there, unmoving, gazing at the painting for the longest time. Literally not moving a muscle. I couldn’t even tell if he was breathing or not. I stood a little ways away by the window, observing him. I wondered how much time passed. It seemed almost forever. As he observed the painting, his face was totally devoid of expression. His eyes were glazed, flat, clouded, like a still puddle reflecting a cloudy sky. The eyes of someone who wanted to keep others at a distance. I couldn’t guess what he might be thinking, deep in his heart.

Then, like when a magician claps his hands to bring a person out of a hypnotic spell, he stood up straight and trembled slightly. His expression returned, as did the light in his eyes. He slowly walked over to me, held out his right hand, and rested it on my shoulder.

“Amazing,” he said. “Truly outstanding. I don’t know what to say. This is exactly the painting I was hoping for.”

I could tell from his eyes that he was saying how he honestly felt. He was truly impressed, and moved, by my painting.

“The painting expresses me perfectly,” Menshiki said. “This is a portrait in the real sense of the word. You didn’t make any mistake. You did exactly what you should have.”

His hand was still resting on my shoulder. It was just resting there, yet I could feel a special power radiating from it.

“But what did you do to discover this painting?” Menshiki asked me.

“Discover?”

“It was you who did this painting, of course. You created it through your own power. But you also discovered it. You found this image buried within you and drew it out. You unearthed it, in a way. Don’t you think so?”

I suppose so, I thought. Of course I moved my hands, and followed my will in painting it. I was the one who chose the paints, the one who used brushes, knives, and fingers to paint the colors onto the canvas. But looked at from a different angle, maybe all I’d done was use Menshiki as a catalyst to locate something buried inside me and dig it up. Just like the heavy equipment that moved aside the rock mound behind the little shrine, lifted off the heavy lattice cover, and unearthed that odd stone-lined chamber. I couldn’t help but see an affinity between these two similar operations that took place in tandem. Everything that had happened had started with Menshiki’s appearance, and the ringing of the bell in the middle of the night.