Харуки Мураками - Killing Commendatore

“A friend of mine whose husband’s in finance. But I don’t know how much of that information is true. Someone heard it from someone, and passed it along to someone else. You know how it is. But from what I can make of it, it doesn’t seem groundless.”

“If he was in Tokyo Prison that means that he was put there by the Tokyo district prosecutor.”

“In the end they found him not guilty, is what I heard,” she said. “Still, he was in detention for a long time, and had to endure a very intense investigation. They extended his incarceration a number of times, and wouldn’t grant bail.”

“But he won in court.”

“That’s right. He was prosecuted, but wasn’t given a jail sentence. He apparently remained totally silent during the investigation.”

“My understanding is that the Tokyo district prosecutors are the cream of the crop,” I said. “A proud lot. Once they set their sights on someone, they have solid evidence before they arrest them and charge them. Their win rate in court is really high. So the investigation they did while he was in detention couldn’t have been half-baked. Most people break down under that kind of scrutiny, and sign whatever the prosecutors want them to. Ordinary people wouldn’t be able to stay silent under that kind of pressure.”

“Still, that’s what Mr. Menshiki did. He must have a strong will and a sharp mind.”

Menshiki wasn’t your average person, that was for sure… A strong will and a sharp mind were indeed part of his repertoire.

“There’s one thing I don’t get,” I said. “Whether it is for tax evasion or money laundering or whatever, once the Tokyo district prosecutor arrests you, it’s reported on in the newspapers. And with an unusual name like Menshiki, I would remember the case. I used to be a pretty avid reader of newspapers.”

“I don’t know about that. There’s one other thing—I mentioned it before—but he bought that mountaintop mansion three years ago. Almost forcing the owners to sell. Other people were living there then, and they had no intention at all of selling the house they’d just built. But Mr. Menshiki offered them money—or maybe pressured them in some other way—and drove them out. And then he moved in, like some mean-spirited hermit crab.”

“Hermit crabs don’t drive away what’s living in a shell. They just quietly take over the leftover shell of a dead shellfish.”

“But there must be some hermit crabs that are mean.”

“I don’t get it,” I said, trying to avoid a debate over the ecology of hermit crabs. “If what you’re saying is true, why would Mr. Menshiki insist so strongly that it had to be that house ? So much so that he drove the residents out and took over? That must have taken a lot of money and effort. And that mansion is really too gaudy, too conspicuous, to suit him. It’s a wonderful house, for sure, but I just don’t think it fits his tastes.”

“Plus it’s too big. He doesn’t have a maid, lives alone, hardly ever has guests over. There’s no need to live in such a huge place.”

She drank the rest of the water.

“There must be some special reason why it had to be that house,” she went on. “I have no idea why, though.”

“Anyway, he’s invited me over to his place on Tuesday. Once I actually visit I might learn more.”

“Make sure you check out the secret locked room, the one like Bluebeard’s castle.”

“I’ll remember to,” I said.

“For the time being, things have worked out well.”

“Meaning—?”

“You finished the painting, Mr. Menshiki liked it, and you got a hefty payment for it.”

“I guess so,” I said. “I guess it did work out. I’m relieved.”

“Felicitations, maestro,” she said.

It was no lie to say that I felt relieved. It was true that I’d finished the painting. And true that Menshiki had liked it. And also true that I was happy with the painting. And equally true that this resulted in a nice, healthy amount of money coming my way. For all that, though, I couldn’t feel totally pleased with the way things had worked out. So much around me was still up in the air, left as is, with no clues to follow. The more I wanted to simplify my life, the more disjointed it seemed to become.

As if searching for clues, I almost unconsciously reached out to hold my girlfriend. Her body felt soft, and warm. And damp with sweat.

I know exactly where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to , the man with the white Subaru Forester said.

The next morning I woke up at five thirty. It was Sunday morning. It was still pitch dark outside. After a simple breakfast in the kitchen I changed into work clothes and went into the studio. As the eastern sky grew brighter, I switched off the light, threw open the window, and let chilly, fresh morning air into the room. I took out a fresh canvas and set it on the easel. The chirping of birds filtered in through the open window. The rain during the night had thoroughly soaked the trees. The rain had stopped just a while before, bright gaps in the clouds showing. I sat down on the stool, and, sipping hot black coffee from a mug, stared at the empty canvas before me.

I’ve always enjoyed this time, early in the morning, gazing intently at a pure white canvas. “Canvas Zen” is my term for it. Nothing is painted there yet, but it’s more than a simple blank space. Hidden on that white canvas is what must eventually emerge. As I look more closely, I discover various possibilities, which congeal into a perfect clue as to how to proceed. That’s the moment I really enjoy. The moment when existence and nonexistence coalesce.

But on this day I knew from the beginning what I would be painting. Emerging from this canvas would be a portrait of the middle-aged man with the white Subaru Forester. Up to this moment the man had been patiently waiting, inside me, to be painted. And I had to paint his portrait not for anyone else (not by commission, not to earn a living) but for myself. Just as I had painted Menshiki’s portrait, in order to make visible his reason for being—or at least the meaning it had for me—I had to paint him in my own way. I’m not sure why. But it had to be done.

I closed my eyes and called to mind the figure of the man with the white Subaru Forester. I could distinctly recall the minutest details of his features. Early that second day he’d looked straight at me from his seat in the restaurant. The morning paper on the tabletop was folded, white steam rising from his cup of coffee. The bright morning light shining in the large window, the restaurant filled with the clatter of cheap tableware. That whole scene came back in every detail. And in the midst of that scene the man’s face began to show some expression.

I know exactly where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to , his eyes told me.

This time I began with a rough draft. I stood up, grabbed a stick of charcoal, and stood before the canvas. On the blank space I created the spot where the man’s face would go. With no plan, without thinking, I drew in a single vertical line. A single line, the focal point from which everything else would emerge. What would emerge was the face of a thin, suntanned man, deep wrinkles on his forehead. Thin, piercing eyes. Eyes used to staring at the far-off horizon. Eyes dyed the color of the sky and sea. Hair cut short, dotted with white. My guess, a taciturn, long-suffering man.

Around that central line I used charcoal to add a few supplementary lines, so the outlines of the man’s face would appear. I stepped back to look at the lines I’d done, made a few corrections, and added some new lines. What was important was believing in myself. Believing in the power of the lines, in the power of the space the lines divided. I wasn’t speaking, but letting the lines and spaces speak. Once the lines and spaces began conversing, then color would finally start to speak. And the flat would gradually transform into the three-dimensional. What I had to do was encourage them all, lend them a hand. And more than anything, not get in their way.