Харуки Мураками - Killing Commendatore

“Please wait here,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “Just sit down and relax. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.”

I left Menshiki sitting there by himself—though it worried me a bit—and went back to the dining area. Shoko and Mariye had finished their meal in my absence. Their forks rested on empty plates.

“Do you have a visitor?” Shoko asked in a worried voice.

“Yes, but it’s all right. Someone from the neighborhood just happened to stop by. I asked him to wait in the living room. We’re on friendly terms, so there’s no need for formality. I’ll just finish my meal first.”

I ate what remained of my lunch. Then I brewed a pot of coffee while the two women cleaned up the dishes.

“Shall we have our coffee in the living room?” I asked Shoko.

“But won’t we be intruding on you and your guest?”

I shook my head no. “Not in the slightest. It’s a stroke of luck—this way, I can introduce you to each other. He lives on top of the slope on the other side of the valley, so I doubt you’ve ever met.”

“What is his name?”

“Menshiki. It’s written with the characters for ‘avoidance’ and ‘color.’ ‘Avoiding colors,’ in other words.”

“What an unusual name!” Shoko exclaimed. “I’ve never heard anyone mention a Mr. Menshiki before. The addresses of people across the valley are close to ours, but there’s little coming and going between the two sides.”

We placed the pot of coffee, four cups, and some milk and sugar on a tray and carried it out to the living room. To my surprise, Menshiki was nowhere to be seen. The room was deserted. He wasn’t on the terrace, either. And I doubted he was in the bathroom.

“Where did he disappear to?” I said to no one in particular.

“Was he here earlier?” Shoko asked.

“Until a few minutes ago.”

His suede shoes were gone from the entranceway. I slipped on my sandals and opened the front door. The silver Jaguar was parked exactly where he had left it. So he hadn’t returned home. The sun reflecting off the Jaguar’s windows made it impossible to tell if anyone was inside. I walked over to check. Menshiki was sitting in the driver’s seat, rummaging around for something. I tapped on the window, and he rolled it down. He looked lost.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I want to check the air pressure in my tires, but I can’t find the gauge. It should be in the glove compartment, but it’s gone.”

“Is there some kind of rush?”

“No, not really. I was sitting there in your living room when it started to bother me. Couldn’t recall the last time I checked.”

“So there’s no trouble with them?”

“No, nothing in particular. They seem normal.”

“Then why don’t you forget about the tires for now and come back in? The coffee is made, and two people are waiting.”

“Waiting for me?” he said in a hoarse voice. “Are they waiting for me?”

“Yes, I told them I’d introduce you.”

“Oh dear,” he said.

“Why oh dear?”

“Because I’m not ready for introductions yet. Not emotionally prepared.”

He had the baffled, fearful look of someone ordered to jump from the sixteenth floor of a burning building to a net that looked the size of a drink coaster.

“You should come,” I said, not mincing words. “It’s really not a big deal.”

Menshiki nodded and got out, closing the car door behind him. He started to lock it before realizing how unnecessary that was (what thief would stray up here?), so he stuffed the key in the pocket of his chinos.

Shoko and Mariye were waiting in the living room. They rose to greet us as we entered. My introductions were simple and straightforward. A common human courtesy.

“Mr. Menshiki has also modeled for me. I painted his portrait. He happens to live nearby, and we’ve been friends since we met.”

“I understand you live on the other side of the valley. Have you been there long?” Shoko inquired.

Menshiki blanched at the mention of his home. “Yes, I’ve been living there for a few years. Let’s see, how many is it now—three years perhaps? Or is it four?”

He turned to me as if for confirmation, but I didn’t respond.

“Can we see your home from here?” Shoko asked.

“Yes,” Menshiki said. “But it’s really nothing to brag about,” he added. “It’s awfully out of the way.”

“It’s the same on this side,” Shoko said affably. “Simple shopping is a major expedition. Cell phone service and radios are hit-or-miss. And the road is terribly steep. When the snow is thick, it gets so slippery I’m afraid to take the car out. Luckily, it doesn’t happen that often—just once, five years ago.”

“You’re right,” Menshiki said. “It rarely snows here. It has to do with the warmth of the wind coming off the ocean. The ocean exerts a powerful influence on our climate. You see…”

“In any case,” I broke in, “we should be thankful it snows so rarely here.” I feared he was about to launch into a lecture on the structure and effects of the warm sea currents along the coast of Japan—that’s how wound up he was.

Mariye was looking back and forth at her aunt and Menshiki throughout this exchange. She seemed to have formed no opinion about Menshiki as of yet. Menshiki, for his part, acted as though Mariye wasn’t there, focusing on her aunt as though bewitched.

“Mariye here is letting me paint her portrait,” I said to him. “I asked her to model for me.”

“I drive her here every Sunday morning,” Shoko said. “It’s not far as the crow flies—from your eyes to your nose, you might say—but the road twists and turns so much we have to take the car.”

Menshiki finally turned to look at Mariye Akikawa. But his eyes didn’t focus on any part of her face—they buzzed about nervously like a fly in winter, searching for a place to land. Yet they never seemed to find one.

“These are what I’ve drawn so far,” I said, coming to his aid. I handed him my sketchbook. “I haven’t started painting yet—we’ve just wrapped up the preliminary stage.”

Menshiki stared at the three dessan for a long time, devouring them with his eyes. As if the drawings of Mariye somehow meant more to him than Mariye herself. This wasn’t true, of course—he simply couldn’t bring himself to face her. The dessan were a substitute, nothing more. It was the first time he had been close to her, and he was having a hard time controlling his feelings. Mariye, for her part, regarded the floundering Menshiki as though he were some kind of strange animal.

“They’re superb,” Menshiki said. He turned to Shoko. “Each is so full of life. He’s really captured her!”

“I totally agree,” she said, beaming.

“All the same, Mariye is a very difficult subject,” I said to Menshiki. “Painting her is a challenge. Her expression is constantly changing, so it takes time to grasp what’s at the core. That’s why I haven’t gotten around to the actual painting stage yet.”

“Difficult?” Menshiki said. He looked at Mariye a second time, squinting as though dazzled by her light.

“The three dessan should show very different expressions,” I said. “The slightest facial movement radically transforms the whole atmosphere. When I paint her portrait, I have to get past those superficial differences to grasp the essence of her personality. Otherwise, I’d be conveying only part of the whole.”

“I see,” Menshiki said, dutifully impressed. He looked back and forth between the three sketches and Mariye, comparing them. In the process, his face, which had been so pale, began to regain some of its color. Red dots popped up at first, then the dots grew to blotches the size of ping-pong balls, then baseballs, until in the end his whole face had turned rosy. Mariye watched him, fascinated, but her aunt politely turned away. I grabbed the coffee pot and poured myself another cup.