Харуки Мураками - Killing Commendatore

I felt I had to break the silence. “I’m thinking of starting the actual portrait next week. You know, on canvas with real paint,” I said to no one in particular.

“Do you have a clear image what it will look like?” asked Shoko.

“Not yet,” I said, shaking my head. “I won’t know in any concrete way until I’m sitting in front of the canvas with a brush in my hand. Hopefully, the inspiration will hit me then.”

“You painted Mr. Menshiki’s picture as well, didn’t you?” Shoko asked me.

“Yes, last month.”

“It’s a beautiful portrait,” Menshiki said emphatically. “The paint has to dry a bit more before it can be framed, but it’s hanging on the wall of my study. I’m not sure ‘portrait’ does it justice, though. It’s a painting of me, but of something other than me, too. I don’t know how to put it—I guess you could say it has depth . I never get tired of looking at it.”

“You say it’s you, yet it’s not you at the same time?” Shoko asked.

“I mean it’s a step beyond your typical portrait—it’s deeper, more profound.”

“I want to see it,” Mariye said. They were the first words she had spoken since we had moved to the living room.

“But Mariye… you shouldn’t invite yourself into someone’s—”

“That’s perfectly all right!” Menshiki said, cutting off her aunt’s rebuke as if with a sharp hatchet. His tone was so jarring that we all—including Menshiki himself—were stunned.

“Please do come take a look,” he continued after a moment’s regrouping. “It’s so rare for me to meet someone from the neighborhood. I live alone, so you needn’t worry about disturbing anyone. Any time at all would be fine.”

Menshiki’s face was even redder by the time he finished. It appeared that we hadn’t been the only ones shocked by the urgency in his voice.

“Do you like paintings?” Menshiki asked, this time directing his question to Mariye. His voice was back to normal.

Mariye gave a small nod.

“If it’s all right with you, why don’t I stop by again at this time next Sunday?” Menshiki said. “I could escort you to my home and we could all look at the painting together.”

“But we shouldn’t inconvenience you—” Shoko said.

“I want to see the painting!” Mariye was firm.

In the end it was agreed that Menshiki would come to pick up the two of them the following Sunday afternoon. I was invited too, but I declined, citing an important errand. The last thing I wanted was to get sucked in any deeper. From now on, let those who were involved look after things. I would remain the outsider, however the situation turned out. I would be the mediator, nothing more—though even that had not been my intention.

Menshiki and I accompanied the beautiful aunt and her niece outside to give them a proper send-off. Shoko looked for some time at the silver Jaguar parked next to her Prius. Like a dog lover appraising another person’s dog.

“This is the latest model, isn’t it?” she asked Menshiki.

“Yes, this is their newest coupe on the market,” he answered. “Do you like cars?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that my late father drove a Jaguar sedan. I used to sit next to him, and every so often he’d let me hold the wheel. The Jaguar hood ornament takes me back to those times. Was it an XJ6? It had four round headlights, I think. And an inline six-cylinder 4.2-liter engine.”

“That is the III series, I believe. A truly beautiful model.”

“My father drove that car for ages, so he must have really liked it. Although he complained about the terrible mileage. And it had one minor malfunction after the other.”

“That model in particular is a real gas guzzler. And the wiring was probably faulty. The electrical system has always been the Jaguar’s Achilles’ heel. But if it’s running smoothly, and if you don’t mind shelling out for gas, you can’t beat a Jaguar. For driving comfort and handling, no other car matches it—it’s got a charm all its own. Most people, though, are really turned off by things like gas consumption and mechanical glitches, which is why the Toyota Prius is the one flying off the lots.”

“I didn’t buy this car,” Shoko said, as if by way of apology, gesturing toward her Prius. “My brother bought it for me because it’s safe and easy to drive, and gentle on the environment.”

“The Prius is an excellent car,” Menshiki said. “I’ve thought of buying one myself.”

Was he kidding? Menshiki behind the wheel of a Toyota Prius was as hard to picture as a leopard ordering a salade Niçoise.

“This is very rude of me,” Shoko said, peering into the Jaguar’s interior, “but would it be all right if I sat in it for a minute? I just want to try out the driver’s seat.”

“Of course,” Menshiki answered. He coughed lightly, as if to bring his voice under control. “Sit there as long as you like. Take it for a spin if you wish.”

I was flabbergasted by how interested she was in Menshiki’s Jaguar. On the surface she was so cool and poised, not my image of a car person at all. Yet her eyes were shining when she climbed into the driver’s seat. She snuggled into the cream-colored leather upholstery, studied the dashboard with care, and took the steering wheel in both hands. Then she placed her left hand on the gearshift. Menshiki took the car key from his pocket and passed it to her through the window.

“Turn it on if you like.”

Shoko took the key, inserted it into the ignition next to the wheel, and rotated it clockwise. Instantly, the great feline awoke. She sat there entranced for a moment, listening to the deep purr of the engine.

“I remember this sound well,” she said.

“It’s a 4.2-liter V8 engine. Your father’s XJ6 had six cylinders, and the number of valves and the compression ratio were different too, but they may well sound alike. Both are sinful, though—they squander fossil fuel like there’s no tomorrow. Jaguars haven’t changed a bit on that score.”

Shoko flipped on the right-turn signal. I heard a cheerful clicking sound.

“This really brings back memories.”

Menshiki smiled. “Only a Jaguar’s turn signal sounds like this. It’s unlike that of any other automobile.”

“When I was young, I secretly practiced on the XJ6 to get my driver’s license,” she said. “The first time I drove another car I was totally confused—the parking brake wasn’t where I expected. I had no idea what to do.”

“I know just what you mean,” Menshiki grinned. “The Brits are fussy about the funniest things.”

“I think the interior smells a bit different than my father’s car, though.”

“Sadly, you’re right. For a variety of reasons, Jaguar can’t use the exact same materials on its newer models. The smell changed after 2002, when Connolly Leather stopped supplying their upholstery. In fact, the Connolly company went out of business at that point.”

“How too bad. I loved that smell. I connect it to the smell of my father.”

“To tell the truth,” Menshiki said hesitantly, “I own another Jaguar as well, an older model. It may well have the same odor as your father’s car.”

“Is it an XJ6?”

“No, it’s an E type.”

“Does that mean it’s a convertible?”

“Correct. It’s a Series 1 roadster, made back in the mid-sixties. It still runs well, though. It’s also equipped with a six-cylinder 4.2-liter engine. An original two-seater. The top has been replaced, of course, so it’s not exactly in mint condition.”

Most of this flew over my head—I know nothing about cars—but Menshiki’s words seemed to have made a deep impression on Shoko. They clearly shared an interest, and a fairly specialized interest at that, in Jaguars. That made me feel a little calmer. No longer did I have to think up topics to help them through their first meeting. Mariye’s boredom was palpable, though—she seemed even less into cars than me.