Харуки Мураками - Killing Commendatore

By the time I picked up what I needed at the art supply store, loaded it into the trunk, drove to Masahiko Amada’s office in Aoyama, and found a parking spot, I was exhausted. I felt like the country mouse visiting his city cousin. When I reached his office it was past one by my watch, which meant I was more than a half hour late.

I asked the receptionist to call Masahiko. He came right down. I apologized for being so tardy.

“Don’t worry about it,” he laughed. “My office can adjust, and so can the restaurant.”

Masahiko took me to an Italian place in the neighborhood, located in the basement of a small building. Masahiko was obviously well known there, for no sooner had they seen his face than we were guided to a private room in the back. It was very quiet: the sound of voices did not reach us and no music was playing. A quite passable landscape painting hung on the wall. It showed a white lighthouse on a green peninsula under a blue sky. Super-ordinary scene, sure, but done well enough to let the viewer think, “Hey, that place might be nice to check out.”

Masahiko ordered a glass of white wine, while I asked for Perrier.

“I’ve got to drive back after this,” I explained. “It’s quite a trek.”

“No kidding,” said Masahiko. “Still, it’s a heck of a lot better than Hayama or Zushi. I lived in Hayama once, and driving back and forth to Tokyo in the summer was awful. The whole route was jammed with people heading to the ocean from the city. A round trip was a half day’s work. Compared to that, driving in from Odawara is nothing.”

The menus arrived and we ordered the prix fixe lunch: prosciutto as appetizer followed by asparagus salad and spaghetti with Japanese lobster.

“So you finally decided to do some serious painting,” Masahiko said.

“Well, I’m living alone now, and I don’t need commissions to get by. Maybe that’s why the urge to paint my own stuff hit me.”

Masahiko nodded. “Everything has a bright side,” he said. “The top of even the blackest, thickest cloud shines like silver.”

“Yeah, but getting up there to see it is no picnic.”

“I was speaking more theoretically,” Masahiko said.

“I think living on top of a mountain may be affecting me too. It’s the perfect spot to focus on my art.”

“Yeah, when no one’s there to distract you and it’s that quiet, you can really concentrate. A more normal person might get a bit lonely, but I figured you’re the kind of guy who can handle it.”

The door opened and the appetizer was brought in. We fell quiet as the plates were laid out.

“I think the studio has a lot to do with it as well,” I said once the waiter had gone. “There’s something about being in that room that makes me want to paint. At times it feels like the center of the whole house.”

“If the house were human, it’d be the heart, perhaps.”

“Yeah, or the consciousness.”

“Body and Mind,” Masahiko said in English. “To tell the truth, though, it’s hard for me to spend time in his studio. His smell has sunk in too deep. I can still feel him in the air. When I was a boy, he’d isolate himself in that room almost all day, painting away without a word to anyone. It was his sanctum, off-limits to a kid like me. I tend to steer clear of the studio when I’m there, even now. You should be careful too.”

“Be careful? Why?”

“So you don’t become possessed by his spirit. It’s a strong one.”

“Spirit?”

“Maybe ‘psychic energy’ is a better term. Or ‘flow of being.’ His is intense enough to sweep you away. At any rate, when someone like him spends a long time in a particular place, it soaks in his aura. Like particles of smell.”

“And that’s what could possess me?”

“Maybe ‘possessed’ isn’t the best way to put it. ‘Absorb his influence,’ perhaps? It’s like he invested that room with some special power .”

“I wonder. I’m only looking after his home, and I never met him. So maybe it won’t weigh on me as much.”

“You’re probably right,” Masahiko said. He took a sip of white wine. “Being related to him may make me more sensitive to those things. And if it turns out that his ‘aura’ inspires you in your work, so much the better.”

“So how’s he doing these days?”

“Nothing in particular is wrong with him. He’s past ninety, so I can’t say he’s the picture of health, and his mind is confused, but he can still manage to get around with a cane, his appetite’s fine, and his eyes and teeth are in good shape. You know, his teeth are better than mine—never had a cavity!”

“How bad is his memory? Can he recall anything?”

“Not a whole lot. He doesn’t recognize me. He’s lost the concept of family, of father and son. Even the distinction between himself and other people may have blurred. Still, maybe it’s easier when those things are swept away, and you don’t have to think about them anymore.”

I sipped my slender glass of Perrier and nodded. So Tomohiko Amada had forgotten even his son’s face. Memories of student days in Vienna must have set sail for the far shore of forgetfulness some time ago.

“All the same, what I called his ‘flow of being’ is still strong,” Masahiko said, as if in wonder. “It’s strange: he remembers almost nothing, but his will is the same as always. It’s obvious when you look at him. That psychic power is what makes him who he is. I feel a bit guilty sometimes that I didn’t inherit that temperament, but there’s nothing I can do about it. We’re all born with different abilities. Being linked to someone by blood doesn’t mean you have similar gifts.”

I looked in his face. It was rare to see Masahiko bare his true feelings.

“It must be awfully hard to have such a famous father,” I said. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like. My dad was nothing special, just a small businessman.”

“There are some benefits to having a famous father, but there are times that it really sucks. I think the latter are a bit more frequent, actually. You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with that. You’re free to be who you want.”

“You look like the one with a free life.”

“In a sense,” Masahiko said. He turned his wineglass around in his hand. “But in another sense, no.”

Masahiko possessed a keen artistic sensibility of his own. He had taken a job with a medium-sized ad agency after finishing school. By now, his salary had increased, and he looked for all the world like a bachelor enjoying everything city life had to offer. I had no way of knowing if that was true, however.

“I was hoping to ask you a few things about your father,” I said, broaching the reason for my visit.

“What sort of things? You know, I really don’t know that much about him.”

“I heard that he had a younger brother named Tsuguhiko.”

“Yeah, that’s true. That would be my uncle, I guess. But he died a long time ago. Before Pearl Harbor.”

“I heard he committed suicide.”

A shadow passed across Masahiko’s face. “That’s supposed to be a family secret, but it happened so long ago, and part of it’s public knowledge now anyway. So I guess it’s okay to tell you. He cut his wrists with a razor. He was only twenty.”

“What made him do it?”

“Why do you want to know something like that?”

“I’ve been trying to learn more about your father. I stumbled across your uncle’s story when I was looking through some documents.”

“You want to learn more about my father?”

“I wanted to learn more about his paintings, but as I looked at his career I became more and more interested in his personal life. I’d like to know the kind of man he was.”