Харуки Мураками - Killing Commendatore

“You mean you want me to paint the portrait of this girl who may be your daughter.”

Menshiki nodded. “Exactly. That’s what I want you to do. And not from a photograph, but actually have her pose for you and paint the picture with her as the model. Have her come to your studio, like when you painted me. That’s my only condition. How you paint her is up to you—do it any way you want. I promise I won’t have any other requests later on.”

I was at a loss for words. Several questions immediately occurred to me, and I asked the first one that came to mind. “But how can I convince the girl to do that? I might be her neighbor, but I can’t very well just suggest to a young girl I don’t know that I want to paint your portrait, so would you model for me? ”

“No, of course not. That would make her suspicious for sure.”

“Then do you have any good ideas?”

Menshiki looked at me for a time, then, like quietly opening a door and tiptoeing into a back room of a house, he slowly opened his mouth. “Actually, you already know her. And she knows you very well.”

“I already know her?”

“You do. Her name is Mariye—Mariye Akikawa. Aki —the character for ‘autumn’—and kawa, ‘river.’ Mariye is spelled out in hiragana. You do know her, right?”

Mariye Akikawa. I’d heard the name before, but it felt like some temporary obstruction was keeping me from putting name and face together. Finally the pieces fell into place.

I said, “Mariye Akikawa is in my children’s art class in Odawara, isn’t she?”

Menshiki nodded. “That’s right. Exactly. You’re her painting teacher.”

Mariye Akikawa was a small, quiet thirteen-year-old girl in the children’s art class I taught. The class was for elementary school children, and as a junior high student, she was the eldest, but she was so reserved she didn’t stand out at all, even though she was with the younger children. She always sat in a corner, trying to stay under the radar. I remembered her because something about her reminded me of my late sister, and she was about the same age as my sister when she passed away.

Mariye Akikawa hardly ever spoke in class. If I said something to her she just nodded, with barely a word in response. When she absolutely had to say something, she spoke it in such a small voice I often had to ask her to repeat herself. She seemed tense, unable to look me straight in the eye. But she loved painting, and the expression in her eyes radically transformed whenever she held a brush and was working on a canvas. Her gaze became focused, her eyes filled with an intense gleam. And her paintings were quite appealing. Not skilled, exactly, but eye-catching. Her use of colors was especially unique. All in all, a curious sort of girl.

Her glossy black hair fell straight down, her features as lovely as a doll’s. So beautiful, in fact, when you looked at her whole face, there was the sense of it being detached from reality. Her features were objectively attractive, but most people would hesitate to label her beautiful. Something—perhaps that special raw, unpolished aspect that certain young girls exude in adolescence—interfered with the flow of beauty that should have been there. But someday that blockage might be removed and she would turn into a truly lovely girl. That was still a ways off, though. Now that I thought of it, my sister’s features were similar in that way. I often used to think she didn’t appear as beautiful as I knew she could be.

“So Mariye Akikawa might be your real daughter. And she lives in the house across the valley,” I said. “And I’m to paint a portrait with her as model. That’s what you’re asking?”

“I’d prefer to see it as a request, rather than that I’m commissioning the work. And if you’re okay with it, once the painting is finished I’d like to buy it and hang it on the wall in this house. That’s what I want. Or rather what I’m requesting.”

Still, there was something about all this I couldn’t quite swallow. I had a faint apprehension that things wouldn’t simply end there.

“And that’s it? That’s all you want?” I asked.

Menshiki slowly inhaled and breathed out. “Honestly, there’s one other thing I’d like you to do.”

“Which is—?”

“A very small thing.” His voice was quiet, but with a certain force behind it. “When she’s sitting for the portrait, I’d like to visit you. Make it seem like I just happened to stop by. Once is enough. And it can be for just a short time, I don’t mind. Just let me be in the same room as her, and breathe the same air. I won’t ask for anything more. And I can assure you I won’t do anything to get in your way.”

I thought about it. And the more I did, the more uncomfortable I felt. I’ve never been cut out to act as an intermediary. I don’t enjoy getting caught up in the flow of somebody else’s strong emotions—no matter what emotions they might be. The role didn’t suit me. But the fact was that I also wanted to do something for Menshiki. I had to think carefully about my reply.

“We can talk about that later on,” I said. “The first thing is whether or not Mariye will agree to sit for the painting. That’s the first step. She’s a very quiet girl, like a bashful cat. She might not want to model. Or else her parents might not give permission. They don’t really know my background, so they’ll be pretty wary, I would imagine.”

“I know Mr. Matsushima very well, the man who runs the arts-and-culture center,” Menshiki said coolly. “And I’m also, coincidentally, an investor, a financial supporter of the school. I think if Mr. Matsushima puts in a good word, things will go smoothly. You’re an upright person, an artist with a solid career, and if he recommends you, I think it will assuage any concerns that her parents might have.”

He’s already got it all mapped out, I thought. He’s already anticipated what might happen, like the opening moves of a game of go. Nothing coincidental about it.

Menshiki went on. “Mariye Akikawa’s unmarried aunt takes care of her. Her father’s younger sister. I believe I mentioned this before, but after Mariye’s mother died, this aunt came to live with them and has been like a mother to Mariye. Her father is too busy with work to be very involved. So as long as the aunt is persuaded, things should work out fine. Once she agrees to have Mariye model, I would expect the aunt to accompany her to your house as her guardian. There’s no way she’d allow a young girl to go by herself to the house of a man living alone.”

“But will she really give permission for Mariye to model?”

“Let me handle that. As long as you agree to paint her portrait, I’ll take care of any other practical issues that come up.”

I had little doubt he’d be able to “take care of” any of these other “practical issues.” That was his forte. But was it good for me to get so deeply involved in those problems—all these complex interpersonal relations? Didn’t Menshiki have his own plans and intentions that went beyond what he was revealing to me?

“Can I be totally honest with you?” I said. “Maybe it isn’t my place to say this, but I’d like you to hear me out.”

“Of course. Say whatever you want.”

“Isn’t it better, before you put this plan into action, that you determine whether or not Mariye Akikawa really is your child? If you find out she isn’t, then there’s no need to go to all this trouble. It might not be easy, but there has to be a way. I think if anyone could discover that, you could. Even if I paint her portrait, and it’s hanging next to yours, that’s not going to solve anything.”