* * *
—
I offered Menshiki some coffee. That would be nice, he replied, and I went to the kitchen and made a fresh pot. Menshiki remained on the chair in the studio, listening to the opera record. The coffee was ready as the B side of the record came to an end, and we went into the living room to drink it.
“So, does it look like you can do a good portrait of me?” Menshiki asked as he delicately sipped his coffee.
“I’m not sure yet,” I answered honestly. “I don’t know if it will turn out well. The way I’ve painted portraits up till now has been so different from this.”
“Because you’re using an actual model this time?” Menshiki asked.
“That’s one reason, but only a part of it. I don’t know why, but it’s like I’m not able anymore to paint the sort of conventional portraits I’ve done up till now. I need a different method and procedure, but those are still out of reach. I’m still fumbling in the dark.”
“Which means you really are changing. And I’m the catalyst for that change—wouldn’t you say?”
“You may be right.”
Menshiki thought for a while before speaking. “As I told you before, it’s entirely up to you what style of painting you do. I’m a person who’s always seeking change, always in flux. And it’s not like I’m hoping you’ll paint some conventional portrait. Any style, any concept is fine. What I want is for you to depict me exactly as you see me. The methods and procedure are up to you. I’m not hoping I live on like that mailman from Arles. I’m not that ambitious. I just have a healthy curiosity to see what sort of painting will emerge from this.”
“I appreciate your saying that. I just have one request,” I said. “If I can’t come up with a satisfactory painting, then I’d like to forget the whole thing.”
“You won’t give me the painting then?”
I nodded. “I’ll return the advance, of course.”
“All right,” Menshiki said. “I’ll let you be the final judge. Though I must say I have a strong hunch it’s not going to turn out that way.”
“I hope your hunch turns out to be correct.”
Menshiki looked me in the eyes. “But even if the painting’s never completed, I’d be very happy if, in some way, I’m able to help you change. Truly.”
* * *
—
“By the way, Mr. Menshiki,” I said, broaching the topic a little while later, “there’s something I wanted to get your advice on. Something personal, nothing to do with the painting.”
“Of course. I’ll be happy to help if I can.”
I sighed. “It’s kind of a weird story. I might not be able to tell the whole story in the right order, so it makes sense.”
“Take your time, tell it in whatever order is easiest for you. And then we’ll consider it together. The two of us might come up with a good idea that you couldn’t come up with on your own.”
So I told him the story, start to finish. How I suddenly woke up just before two a.m. and heard a weird sound in the darkness. A faint, far-off sound that I could only catch because the insects had stopped chirping. A sound like someone ringing a bell. When I tried to trace the source, it seemed to be coming from between the cracks in a stone mound in the woods behind my house. That mysterious sound continued for some forty-five minutes, intermittently, with irregular intervals of silence between. Finally it stopped completely. The same thing happened two nights in a row—two nights ago and last night. Someone might be ringing that bell-like thing from underneath the stones. Maybe sending out a distress call. But could that be possible? I was starting to doubt my own sanity a little. Was I just imagining things?
Menshiki listened to my story without comment, and remained silent even after I finished. He’d listened intently to what I’d said, and I could tell he was thinking deeply about it.
“A fascinating story,” he said a little while later. He lightly cleared his throat. “As you said, it’s certainly out of the ordinary. I wonder…if possible, I’d like to hear the sound of that bell myself, so could I come over tonight? If you don’t mind?”
This took me by surprise. “Come all the way over here in the dead of night?”
“Of course. If I hear the bell too, that would prove you’re not hallucinating. That’s the first step. If it is an actual bell, then let’s try to locate the source, the two of us. Then we can think about what to do next.”
“True enough—”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll come over here tonight at twelve thirty. Does that work for you?”
“That’s fine, but I don’t want to put you out—”
A pleasant smile graced his lips. “Not to worry. If I can help you, nothing would make me happier. Plus, I’m a very curious person. What that bell in the middle of the night might mean, and if someone is ringing it, who that is—I’m dying to know. You feel the same way, don’t you?”
“Of course—” I said.
“Then let’s go with that. I’ll see you tonight. And there’s something else I thought of.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll tell you about it later. I have to make sure of something first.”
Menshiki got up from the sofa and held out his right hand. I shook it. As always, a firm handshake. He looked happier than usual.
* * *
—
After he left I spent the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen cooking. Once a week I prepare all my meals. I put them in the fridge or freezer, then get by on these for the week. This was my meal-prep day. For dinner that evening I added macaroni to some boiled sausage and cabbage. Plus a tomato, avocado, and onion salad. In the evening I lay on the sofa as always, reading while listening to music. After a while I stopped reading and thought about Menshiki.
Why had he looked so happy when we said goodbye? Was he really so pleased to be able to help me out? Why? I didn’t get it. I was just a poor, unknown artist. My wife of six years had left me, I didn’t get along with my parents, had no set place to live, no assets, and was simply hanging out in a friend’s father’s house. Menshiki, in contrast (not that there was any need to make a comparison), had been successful at business at a young age, and made enough to live comfortably for the rest of his days. At least that’s what he had told me. He was good-looking, owned four British cars, and lived in luxury in a huge mountaintop mansion without, apparently, doing any real work. So why would a person like that be interested in someone like me? And why would he make time in the dead of the night to help me out?
I shook my head and went back to reading. Thinking about it wasn’t going to get me anywhere. It was like trying to put together a puzzle that was missing some pieces. I could think all I wanted and never arrive at any conclusion. But I couldn’t help but think about it. I sighed, and put the book on the tabletop again, closed my eyes, and listened to the music. Schubert’s String Quartet no. 15, played by the Vienna Konzerthaus Quartet.
Since coming here, I’d listened to classical music every day, most of it German (or Austrian), since the majority of Tomohiko Amada’s record collection consisted of German classical music. His collection included the obligatory nods to Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff, Sibelius, Vivaldi, Debussy, and Ravel, but that’s all. Since he was an opera fan there were, as you might expect, some recordings by Verdi and Puccini. But compared to the substantial lineup of German opera he didn’t seem as enthusiastic about these.
I imagined Amada had intense memories of his time studying in Vienna, which may have accounted for the deep absorption in German music. Or it could have been the opposite. Maybe his love of German music had come first, and that’s why he had chosen to study in Vienna instead of France. I had no way of knowing which had come first.
Either way, I was in no position to complain that German music was the preferred type in this house. I was a mere caretaker, and they were kind enoug
h to let me listen to the records there. And I enjoyed listening to the music of Bach, Schubert, Brahms, Schumann, and Beethoven. Not forgetting Mozart, of course. Their music was deep, amazing, and gorgeous. Up to then in my life I’d never had the opportunity to really settle down and listen to that type of music. I’d always been too busy trying to make a living, and didn’t have the wherewithal financially. So I decided that, as long as I’d been provided this wonderful opportunity, I’d listen to as much music here as I could.
After eleven I fell asleep for a while on the sofa listening to music. I might have slept for about twenty minutes. When I woke up the record was over, the arm back in its cradle, the turntable not moving. There were two players in the living room, one an automatic, the other an old-school manual type, but to play it safe—so I could fall asleep listening, in other words—I generally used the automatic. I slipped the Schubert record back in its jacket, and returned it to its designated spot on the record shelf. From the open window I could hear the clamor of insects. Since they were still making a racket, I wouldn’t be hearing the sound of the bell quite yet.
I warmed up coffee in the kitchen and munched on a few cookies. And listened intently to the noisy insect ensemble that enveloped the mountains. A little before twelve thirty I heard the Jaguar slowly making its way up the slope. As it changed direction, the pair of yellow headlights lit up the window. The engine finally cut out, and I heard the usual solid thunk as the door shut. I sat on the sofa, sipping coffee, getting my breathing under control, waiting for the front doorbell to ring.
13
AT THIS POINT IT’S MERELY A HYPOTHESIS
We sat in chairs in the living room, drank our coffee, and talked, killing time until that time rolled around. At first we chatted about inconsequential things, but after a curtain of silence descended on us Menshiki, a bit hesitantly, yet resolutely, asked, “Do you have any children?”
The question took me by surprise. He didn’t seem the type to ask that kind of question—especially of someone he didn’t know well. He seemed more the I-won’t-stick-my-nose-in-your-business-if-you-won’t-stick-yours-in-mine type of person. At least that’s the way I read him. But when I looked up and saw his serious expression, I knew it wasn’t an impulsive question. He’d been thinking of asking me this for a long time.
I responded. “I was married for six years, but we didn’t have any children.”
“You didn’t want any?”
“I was fine either way. But my wife didn’t want any,” I said. I didn’t, though, get into the reason she gave. Even now I’m not sure that it reflected her true feelings.
Menshiki seemed hesitant, but forged ahead. “This might sound rude, but have you ever considered that there might be another woman somewhere, other than your wife, who secretly had a child of yours?”
I looked him full in the face again. What a strange question. I rummaged around, pro forma, through a few drawers of memory, but came up empty-handed. I hadn’t had sex with all that many women until then, and even if something like that had taken place, I think I would have heard about it.
“I guess it’s possible, in theory. But realistically—commonsensically, you might say—it’s not.”
“I see,” Menshiki said. He quietly sipped his coffee, thinking deeply.
“Why do you ask?” I ventured.
He looked out the window, silent for a time. The moon was visible, not as weirdly bright as two days ago, but still plenty bright. Scattered clouds slowly wended their way from the sea toward the mountains.
Menshiki finally spoke up. “As I mentioned before, I’ve never been married. I’ve always been a bachelor. Work kept me busy all the time, that’s one reason, but it’s also because living with someone else didn’t fit my personality and lifestyle. I’m sure this sounds pretty stuck-up, but I’m the type who can only live alone. I have almost no interest in lineage or relatives. I’ve never thought I’d like to have children. There’s a personal reason for that, mostly because of my home environment when I was growing up.”
He paused, took a breath, then went on.
“But a few years ago I began to think that I might actually have a child. Or I should say, I was compelled to think that way.”
No comment from me.
“I find it strange myself that I’m opening up to you, about this kind of personal matter. I mean, we just met.” The faintest of smiles rose to Menshiki’s lips.
“I’m okay with it, as long as you are.”
Ever since I was little, for some reason people have tended to open up to me about the most unexpected topics. Maybe I have an innate ability to draw out secrets from strangers. Or maybe I just seem like a good listener, I don’t know. Either way, I don’t remember it ever working to my advantage. After people tell me their secrets, they always regret it.
“This is the first time I’ve ever told anybody this,” Menshiki said.
I nodded and waited for more. Everyone says the same thing.
Menshiki began his story. “This happened fifteen years ago, when I was going out with a woman. I was in my late thirties then, she was in her late twenties. She was a beautiful, attractive woman, extremely bright. I was serious about our relationship, though I’d made it clear to her there was no chance of us getting married. I don’t plan to ever marry anyone, I told her. I didn’t want her to have any false hopes. If she ever found someone else she wanted to marry, I would step aside without a word. She understood exactly how I felt. While we went out—for about two and half years—we got along really well. We never argued, even once. We traveled together to lots of places, and she’d often stay over at my place. She even kept a set of clothes there.”
He seemed to be contemplating something, then continued his story.
“If I were a normal person, or closer to being normal, I wouldn’t have hesitated to marry her. But—” He paused here and let out a small breath. “But the upshot was I chose the kind of life I have now, a quiet life all by myself, and she chose a healthier life for herself. In other words, she got married to another man who was closer to being normal than me.”
Until the very end, however, she didn’t disclose to him the fact that she was getting married. The last time he saw her was a week after her twenty-ninth birthday (the two of them had dined out at a restaurant in Ginza on her birthday, and later on he recalled how unusually quiet she’d been). He was working in an office in Akasaka then and she’d called him saying she wanted to see him and talk, and asked if she could see him right away. Of course, he replied. She’d never visited his workplace even once, but he hadn’t thought it odd. His office was a small place, just him and a middle-aged woman secretary. So he didn’t need to worry about anyone else if she stopped by. There had been a time when he’d managed a large company with lots of employees, but at this point he was developing a new network by himself. His usual approach was to work quietly by himself to develop a new business strategy; then, when he began implementing the plan, he would aggressively employ a broad range of talent.
It was just before five p.m. when his girlfriend showed up. They sat down together on his office sofa to talk. He’d had the secretary in the next room go home. It was his normal routine to continue working alone in the office after his secretary left for the day. Often he’d be so engrossed in his work that he’d stay all night. His idea was for the two of them to go to a nearby restaurant and have dinner, but she turned that down. I don’t have time today, she said, I have to meet somebody in Ginza.
“You said you had something you wanted to talk about,” he said.
“No, I don’t have anything to really talk about,” she said. “I just wanted to see you.”
“I’m glad you came,” he said, smiling. It had been some time since she’d spoken so openly to him. She generally spoke in a more indirect, roundabout way. He had no idea what this portended.
She moved over on th
e sofa and sat down in his lap. She put her arms around him and kissed him. A serious, deep kiss, tongues entwined. She reached out and undid Menshiki’s belt. She took out his already erect penis, holding it in her grasp for a time. Then she leaned forward and wrapped her mouth around it. She slowly ran the tip of her long tongue around it. Her tongue was smooth and hot.
This all came out of nowhere. She was usually more passive when it came to sex—especially oral sex—and when it came to doing it, or having things done to her, he’d always felt a slight resistance on her part. But now here she was taking the lead. What’s come over her? he wondered.
She suddenly stood up, tossed aside her expensive black pumps, briskly lowered her stockings and panties, again sat down on his lap, and now guided his penis inside her. Her vagina was wet, and moved smoothly, naturally, like some living being. The whole sequence had happened so quickly (and was so unlike her, since she was always so calm and deliberate). Before he realized it, he was deep inside her, that smooth wall completely enveloping his penis, squeezing him silently yet insistently.
This was unlike any sex he’d ever had with her. It was at once hot and cold, hard and soft. It was a strange, contradictory sensation, as if he were being simultaneously accepted and rejected. He had no idea what that meant. She straddled him, and like a person on a small boat being tossed around by the waves, moved violently up and down. Her black hair tossed about, supple as a willow branch in a strong wind. She lost control, her gasps growing ever louder. Menshiki wasn’t sure if he had locked the office door or not. He felt he had, but also that he’d forgotten to. But this wasn’t the time to go check.
“Shouldn’t we use a condom or something?” he managed to ask. She was always careful about contraception.
“It’s okay—today,” she gasped in his ear. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
Everything about her was different from usual, as if a totally different personality dormant inside her had awoken and hijacked her body and soul. Menshiki imagined that today must be some sort of special day for her. There was so much that men can’t fathom about women’s bodies.
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