Харуки Мураками - Killing Commendatore

Menshiki said, “It’s like an earthquake deep under the sea. In an unseen world, a place where light doesn’t reach, in the realm of the unconscious. In other words, a major transformation is taking place. It reaches the surface, where it sets off a series of reactions and eventually takes form where we can see it with our own eyes. I’m no artist, but I can grasp the basic idea behind that process. Outstanding ideas in the business world, too, emerge through a similar series of stages. The best ideas are thoughts that appear, unbidden, from out of the dark.”

Menshiki once more stood before the painting and stepped closer to examine the surface. Like someone reading a detailed map, he studiously checked out each and every detail. He stepped back nine feet, and with narrowed eyes gazed at the work as a whole. His face wore an expression close to ecstasy. He reminded me of a carnivorous raptor about to latch onto its prey. But what was the prey? Was it my painting, or me myself? Or something else? I had no idea. But soon, like mist hovering over the surface of a river at dawn, that strange expression like ecstasy faded, then vanished. To be filled in by his usual affable, thoughtful expression.

He said, “Generally I avoid saying anything that smacks of self-praise, but honestly I feel kind of proud to know that I didn’t misjudge things. I have no artistic talent myself, and have nothing to do with creating original works, but I do know outstanding art when I see it. At least I flatter myself that I do.”

Somehow I couldn’t easily accept what Menshiki was telling me, or feel happy to hear it. It may have been those sharp, raptor-like eyes that bothered me.

“So you like the painting?” I asked again to make sure.

“That goes without saying. This is truly a valuable painting. I’m overjoyed that you came up with such a powerful work using me as the model, as the motif. And of course it goes without saying that as the one who commissioned the painting, I’ll take it. Assuming that’s all right with you?”

“Yes. It’s just that I—”

Menshiki held up a hand to cut me off. “So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to invite you to my house to celebrate its completion. Would that be all right? It will be, like the old expression, a cozy little get-together. As long as this isn’t any trouble for you, that is.”

“None at all, but you really don’t need to do this. You’ve done so much already—”

“But I’d really like to. I’d like the two of us to celebrate the completion of the painting. So won’t you join me for dinner at my place? Nothing fancy, just a simple little dinner, just the two of us. Apart from the cook and bartender, of course.”

“Cook and bartender?”

“There’s a French restaurant I like near Hayakawa harbor. I’ll have the cook and bartender over on their regular day off. He’s a great chef. He uses the freshest fish and comes up with some very original recipes. Actually, for quite some time I’ve been wanting to invite you over, and have been making preparations. But with the painting done, the timing couldn’t be better.”

It was hard to keep the surprise from showing on my face. I had no idea how much it would cost to arrange something like that, but for Menshiki, it must be a regular occurrence. Or at least something he was accustomed to arranging…

Menshiki said, “How would four days from now be? Tuesday evening. If that’s good for you, I’ll set it up.”

“I don’t have any particular plans then,” I said.

“Tuesday it is, then,” he said. “Also, could I take the painting home with me now? I’d like to have it nicely framed and hanging on the wall by the time you come over, if that’s possible.”

“Mr. Menshiki, do you really see your face within this painting?” I asked again.

“Of course I do,” Menshiki said, giving me a wondering look. “Of course I can see my face in the painting. Very distinctly. What else is depicted here?”

“I see,” I said. What else could I say? “You’re the one who commissioned the work, so if you like the painting, it’s already yours. Please do what you’d like with it. The thing is, the paint isn’t dry yet, so be extremely careful when you carry it. And I think it’s better to wait a little longer before framing it. Best to let it dry for about two weeks before doing that.”

“I understand. I’ll handle it carefully. And I’ll wait to have it framed.”

At the front door he held out his hand and we shook hands for the first time in a while. A satisfied smile rose to his face.

“I’ll see you Tuesday, then. I’ll send a car over around six.”

“By the way, you aren’t inviting the mummy?” I asked Menshiki. I don’t know why I said that. The mummy just suddenly popped into my head, and I couldn’t help myself.

Menshiki looked at me searchingly. “Mummy? What do you mean?”

“The mummy that should have been in that chamber. The one that must have been ringing the bell every night, and disappeared, leaving the bell behind. The monk who practiced austerity to the point of being mummified. I was thinking maybe he wanted to be invited to your place. Like the statue of the Commendatore in Don Giovanni .”

Menshiki thought about this, and a cheerful smile came over him as if he finally got it. “I see! Just like Don Giovanni invited the statue of the Commendatore, you’re wondering how would it be if I invited the mummy to our dinner?”

“Exactly. It might be karma, too.”

“Sounds good. Fine with me. It’s a celebration, after all. If the mummy would care to join us, I will be happy to issue the invitation. Sounds like we’ll have a pleasant evening. But what should we have for dessert?” He smiled happily. “The problem is, we can’t see him. Makes it hard to invite him.”

“Indeed,” I said. “But the visible is not the only reality. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Menshiki gingerly carried the painting outside. He took an old blanket from the trunk, laid it on the passenger seat, and placed the painting down on top so as not to smear the paint. Then he used some thin rope and two cardboard boxes to secure the painting so it wouldn’t move around. It was all cleverly done. He always seemed to carry around a variety of tools and things in his trunk.

“Yes, what you said may be exactly right,” Menshiki suddenly murmured as he was leaving. He rested both hands on the leather-covered steering wheel and looked straight up at me.

“What I said?”

“That sometimes in life we can’t grasp the boundary between reality and unreality. That boundary always seems to be shifting. As if the border between countries shifts from one day to the next depending on their mood. We need to pay close attention to that movement, otherwise we won’t know which side we’re on. That’s what I meant when I said it might be dangerous for me to remain inside that pit any longer.”

I didn’t know how to respond, and Menshiki didn’t go any further. He waved to me out the window, revving the V8 engine so it rumbled pleasantly, and he and the still-not-dry portrait vanished from sight.

At one p.m. on Saturday afternoon my girlfriend drove over in her red Mini. I went out to greet her when she arrived. She had on green sunglasses and a light-gray jacket over a simple beige dress.

“You want to do it in the car? Or do you prefer the bed?” I asked.

“Don’t be silly,” she laughed.

“Doing it in the car doesn’t sound so bad. Figuring out how to manage it in a cramped space.”

“Someday soon.”

We sat in the living room and drank tea. I told her about how I’d just managed to finish the portrait (or portrait-like painting) of Menshiki I’d been struggling with. And how it was totally different from any of the portraits I’d done professionally. Her interest seemed piqued.