Killing Commendatore

by Haruki Murakami

  I didn’t say anything.

  Menshiki finally climbed up out of the hole. He called the foreman over to his side, and they talked for a long time. I stood there, bell in hand, next to the hole. I pondered climbing down into this stone-lined chamber, but then thought better of it. I wasn’t as hesitant as Masahiko, but I did decide it was better not to do anything uncalled for. If things could be left alone, the smart thing might be to do so. I placed the bell, for the time being, in front of the little shrine, and wiped my palm on my pants a couple of times.

  Menshiki ambled over. “We’ll have them do a more thorough examination of that stone-lined chamber,” he said. “At first glance it looks like just a hole, but I’ll have them check it all out from one end to the other. They might discover something. Though I sort of doubt it.” He looked at the bell I’d placed in front of the shrine. “It’s odd that this bell’s the only thing left. Since someone had to be inside there in the middle of the night ringing the bell.”

  “Maybe the bell was ringing by itself,” I ventured.

  Menshiki smiled. “An interesting theory, but I doubt it. For whatever purpose, someone was sending out a message from down inside that hole. A message to you, or maybe to us. Or to people in general. But whoever it was has vanished like smoke. Or else slipped away from there.”

  “Slipped away?”

  “Slipped right past us.”

  I couldn’t understand what he was getting at.

  “Because the soul isn’t something you can see,” Menshiki said.

  “You believe in the existence of the soul?”

  “Do you?”

  I didn’t have a good answer.

  “I believe that it’s not necessary to believe in the soul’s existence. But turn that around and you come to the belief that there’s no need to not believe in its existence. A kind of roundabout way of putting it, but do you understand what I’m getting at?”

  “Sort of,” I said.

  Menshiki picked up the bell from where I’d placed it in front of the shrine. He held it out and rang it several times. “A priest probably breathed his last there, underground, ringing this bell and chanting sutras. All alone, shut away in the pitch-black darkness, that heavy lid in place, in the bottom of a sealed well. And most likely all in secret. I have no idea what sort of priest he was. A respectable priest, or merely some fanatic. Either way, someone constructed a stone tumulus on top of it. I don’t know what happened after that, but people then completely forgot he’d been voluntarily buried under here. Then a big earthquake occurred at some point, and the mound collapsed until it was just a pile of stones. It could have been during the Kanto earthquake of 1923, since certain areas around Odawara suffered real damage back then. And everything was swallowed up into oblivion.”

  “If that’s true, then where did the priest who died there—the mummy, I mean—disappear to?”

  Menshiki shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe at some point someone dug up the hole and took him away.”

  “To do that they’d have to move all these stones and then pile them up again,” I said. “And then who was ringing the bell yesterday in the middle of the night?”

  Menshiki shook his head again, and smiled faintly. “Good grief. We used all this equipment to move the stones and open up the chamber, and in the end all we found out for sure is that we don’t know a single thing. All we managed to get was an old bell.”

  * * *

  —

  They examined the stone chamber thoroughly, and merely determined that there were no hidden devices anywhere. This was merely a round hole, lined with a stone wall, 8.2 feet deep with a diameter of 5.9 feet (they made precise measurements). Finally, they loaded the backhoe up onto the truck bed, and the workers collected all their tools and left. All that remained was the open hole and the metal ladder. The foreman was kind enough to leave it behind. They also laid several thick boards on top of the hole so no one would fall into it by mistake. They left some heavy stones on top to weigh the boards down so they wouldn’t blow away in a strong wind. The wooden lattice cover was too heavy to lift, so they left it on the ground nearby and covered it with a plastic tarp.

  Before they left, Menshiki told the foreman not to mention this operation to anyone. It had archaeological significance, and he wanted, he said, to keep it from the public until the time was right to announce the find.

  “Understood,” the foreman said with a serious expression. “We’ll leave it all here. And I’ll warn the others not to say anything about it.”

  After the workers and heavy machinery had left and the mountains were blanketed in their usual stillness again, the dug-up area looked like skin after a major operation, shabby and pitiful. The formerly vigorous clump of pampas grass had been trampled down beyond recognition, the ruts left by the backhoe like stitches left behind in the dark, damp soil. The rain had cleared up completely, though the sky was still covered by an unbroken layer of monotonously gray clouds.

  When I looked at the pile of stones now stacked up on another piece of ground, I couldn’t help but think, We should never have done this. We should have left them the way they were. On the other hand, though, the indisputable fact was that it was something we had to do. I couldn’t go on listening to that strange sound night after night. But if I hadn’t met Menshiki, I never would have had the means to dig up that hole. It was only because he had arranged for the workers, and had paid for the whole thing—I had no clue how much it cost—that the operation had been possible.

  But meeting Menshiki and, as a result, having this large-scale excavation take place—was it really all just coincidence? Had it all just fallen together by chance? Weren’t things just a little too convenient? Hadn’t the scenario been all planned out in advance? With all these unanswered doubts, I went with Menshiki to the house. He carried the bell we’d unearthed. He never let go of it the whole time we were walking. As if trying to read, from the touch of it, some kind of message.

  As soon as we got back inside Menshiki asked, “Where should I put this bell?”

  Where indeed? I had no idea. For the time being, I decided to place it in the studio. Having that weird object under the same roof didn’t sit well with me, but that said, I couldn’t just toss it outside. It was, no doubt, a valuable Buddhist implement, imbued with a certain soulfulness, so I couldn’t just neglect it. I decided to put it in the sort of neutral zone of the studio, which felt like a separate annex. I cleared a space on the long, narrow shelf used for painting materials and placed it there. Next to the large mug used to hold brushes, it even looked like some specialized painting tool.

  “What a strange day,” Menshiki said.

  “I’m sorry you had to use up your entire day for this,” I said.

  “No, don’t apologize. It’s been very interesting,” Menshiki said. “And this isn’t the end of it, I would imagine.”

  Menshiki had an odd look on his face, as if gazing far away.

  “Meaning something else is going to happen?” I asked.

  Menshiki chose his words carefully. “I can’t explain it well, but I get the feeling that this is only the beginning.”

  “Only the beginning?”

  He held his palms upward. “I’m not sure, of course. Maybe that’ll be it, and we’ll just be left thinking what a strange day that was. That would probably be the best outcome. But nothing’s been resolved. The same questions remain. And these are very important questions. That’s why I have a hunch that something else is going to happen.”

  “Something connected to that stone-lined chamber?”

  Menshiki gazed outside for a moment before he spoke. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s just a hunch.”

  And of course it turned out as he’d felt—or predicted—it might. Like he said, that day was only the beginning.

  16

  A RELATIVELY G
OOD DAY

  That night I had trouble sleeping. I was anxious whether the bell I’d left in the studio would start ringing in the middle of the night. If it did, then what would I do? Pull the covers up over my head and pretend not to hear anything until the next morning? Or take my flashlight and go to the studio to check it out? And what would I find there?

  Unable to decide how I should react, I lay in bed reading. But even after two a.m. the bell hadn’t rung. All I heard was the usual drone of insects. As I read my book I checked the clock next to my bed every five minutes. When the digital display read 2:30 I finally breathed a sigh of relief. The bell wouldn’t be ringing tonight, I figured. I closed the book, turned out the bedside light, and went to sleep.

  * * *

  —

  The next morning when I woke up before seven, the first thing I did was go check on the bell. It was as I’d left it the night before, on the shelf. Brilliant sunlight illuminated the mountains, and the crows were in the midst of their usual noisy morning routine. In the light of day the bell didn’t look ominous at all. It was nothing more than a simple, well-used Buddhist implement from the past.

  I went back to the kitchen, brewed coffee in the coffee maker, and drank it. Heated up a scone that had gotten hard in the toaster and ate it. Then went out to the terrace, breathed in the morning air, leaned against the railing, and looked over at Menshiki’s house across the valley. The large tinted windows glistened in the morning sun. Probably one of the tasks included in the once-per-week cleaning service was to clean all the windows. The glass was always clean and shiny. I looked over there for a while, but Menshiki didn’t appear. We still hadn’t yet reached the point where we waved at each other across the valley.

  At ten thirty I drove my car to the supermarket to buy groceries. I came back, put them away, and made a simple lunch, a tofu and tomato salad with a rice ball. After I ate, I had some strong green tea. Then I lay down on the sofa and listened to a Schubert string quartet. It was a beautiful piece. According to the liner notes on the jacket, when it was first performed there was quite a backlash among listeners, who felt it was “too radical.” I don’t know what part was radical, but something about it must have offended the old-fashioned people of that time.

  As one side of the record ended I suddenly got very sleepy, so I pulled a blanket over me and slept for while on the sofa. A short but deep sleep, probably about twenty minutes. It felt like I had a few dreams, but when I woke up I couldn’t remember them. Those kinds of dreams—the kind where all sorts of unrelated fragments are mixed together. Each fragment has a certain gravitas, but by intertwining they canceled each other out.

  I went to the fridge and drank some cold mineral water straight from the bottle and managed to chase away the dregs of sleep that remained like scraps of clouds in the corners of my body. I felt a renewed awareness of the reality that I was living, alone, in the mountains. I lived here by myself. Some sort of fate had brought me to this special place. I remembered the bell. In the weird stone chamber deep in the woods, who in the world had been ringing that bell? And where on earth was that person now?

  * * *

  —

  By the time I had changed into my painting outfit, gone into the studio, and stood looking at Menshiki’s portrait, it was past two p.m. Normally I worked in the morning. From eight to noon was the time I could focus best on painting. I liked the sort of domestic quiet at those times. After moving to the mountains I’d grown fond of the brilliant and pure air that the teeming nature around me provided. Working at the same time in the same place each day has always held a special meaning for me. Repetition created a certain rhythm. But this day, partly because I hadn’t slept well the night before, I spent the morning without accomplishing anything. Which is why I went to the studio in the afternoon.

  I sat on my round work stool, arms folded, and from a distance of some six feet gazed at the painting I’d begun. I’d started by using a thin brush to outline Menshiki’s face, then with him modeling before me for fifteen minutes also used black paint to flesh this out. This was just a rough framework at this point, though it gave rise to a productive flow. A flow that had its source in Wataru Menshiki. This was what I needed most.

  As I stared hard at this black-and-white framework, an image of a color I should add came to me. The idea sprang up suddenly, all on its own. The color was like that of a tree with its green leaves dully dyed by rain. I mixed several colors together and created what I wanted on my palette. After much trial and error, I finally arrived at what I’d pictured and, without really thinking, added the color to the line drawing I’d done. I had no idea myself what sort of painting would emerge from this, though I did know that that color was going to be a vital grounding for the work. Gradually this painting was beginning to stray far afield from the format of a typical portrait. But even if it doesn’t turn out as a portrait, I told myself, that was okay. As long as there was a set flow, all I could do was go with it. What I wanted now was to paint what I wanted to paint, the way I wanted to paint it (something Menshiki wanted as well). I could think about the next step later on.

  I was simply following ideas that sprang up naturally inside me, with no plan or goal. Like a child, not watching his step, chasing some unusual butterfly fluttering across a field. After adding this color to the canvas I set my palette and brush down, again sat down on the stool six feet away, and studied the painting straight on. This is indeed the right color, I decided. The kind of green found in a forest wet by the rain. I nodded several times to myself. This was the kind of feeling toward a painting I hadn’t experienced for ages. Yes—this was it. This was the color I’d wanted. Or maybe the color the framework itself had been seeking. With this color as the base, I mixed some peripheral, variant colors, adding variation and depth to the painting.

  And as I gazed at the image I’d done, the next color leaped up at me. Orange. Not just a simple orange, but a flaming orange, a color that had both a strong vitality and also a premonition of decay. Like a fruit slowly rotting away. Creating this color was much more of a challenge than the green. It wasn’t simply a color, but had to be connected with a specific emotion, an emotion entwined with fate, but in its own way firm, unfluctuating. Making a color like that was no easy task, of course, but in the end I managed. I took out a new brush and ran it over the surface of the canvas. In places I used a knife, too. Not thinking was the priority. I tried to turn off my mind, decisively adding this color to the composition. As I painted, details of reality almost totally vanished from my mind. The sound of the bell, that gaping stone tomb, my ex-wife sleeping with some other man, my married girlfriend, the art classes I taught, the future—I thought of none of it. I didn’t even think of Menshiki. What I was painting had, of course, started out as his portrait, but by this point my mind was even clear of the thought of his face. Menshiki was nothing more than a starting point. What I was doing was painting for me, for my sake alone.

  I don’t remember how much time passed. By the time I looked around, the room had gotten dim. The autumn sun had disappeared behind the western mountains, yet I was so engrossed in my work I’d forgotten to switch on a light. I looked at the canvas and saw five colors there already. Color on top of color, and more color on top of that. In one section the colors were subtly mixed, in another part one color overwhelmed another and prevailed over it.

  I turned on the ceiling light, sat down again on the stool, and looked at the painting. I knew the painting was incomplete. There was a wild outburst to it, a type of violence that had propelled me forward. A wildness I had not seen in some time. But something was still missing, a core element to control and quell that raw throng, an idea to bring emotion under control. But I needed more time to discover that. That torrent of color had to rest. That would be a job for tomorrow and beyond, when I could return to it under a fresh, bright light. The passage of the right amount of time would show me what was needed. I had to w
ait for it, like waiting patiently for the phone to ring. And in order to wait that patiently, I had to put my faith in time. I had to believe that time was on my side.

  Seated on the stool, I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. In the autumn twilight I could clearly sense something within me changing. As if the structure of my body had unraveled, then was being recombined in a different way. But why here, and why now? Did meeting the enigmatic Menshiki and taking on his portrait commission result in this sort of internal transformation? Or had uncovering the weird underground chamber, and being led there by the sound of the bell, acted as a stimulus to my spirit? Or was it that I’d merely reached an unrelated turning point in my life? No matter which explanation I went with, there didn’t seem to be any basis for it.

  “It feels like this is just the beginning,” Menshiki had said as we parted. Had I stepped into this beginning he’d spoken about? At any rate, I’d been so worked up by the act of painting in a way I hadn’t in years, so absorbed in creating, that I’d literally forgotten the passage of time. As I stowed away my materials, my skin had a feverish flush that felt good.

  As I straightened up, the bell on the shelf caught my eye. I picked it up and tried ringing it a couple of times. The familiar sound rang out clearly in the studio. The middle-of-the-night sound that made me anxious. Somehow, though, it didn’t frighten me anymore. I merely wondered why such an ancient bell could still make such a clear sound. I put the bell back where it had been, switched off the light, and shut the door to the studio. Back in the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of white wine and sipped it as I prepared dinner.

  Just before nine p.m. a call came in from Menshiki.

  “How were things last night?” he asked. “Did you hear the bell?”