Killing Commendatore

by Haruki Murakami

  Is it not obvious? someone now said. The voice was right beside my ear.

  Obvious? I asked myself. What’s so obvious?

  What you must discover, can you not see, is what it is about Mr. Menshiki that is not present here, someone said. As before, a clear voice. A voice with no echo, like it was recorded in an anechoic chamber. Each sound clear as crystal. And like an embodied concept, it had no natural inflection.

  I looked around again. This time I got down from the stool and went to check in the living room. I checked every room, but nobody else was in the house. The only other creature there was the horned owl in the attic. The horned owl, of course, couldn’t talk. And the front door was locked.

  First the stool moving on its own, and now this weird voice. A voice from heaven? Or my own voice? Or the voice of some anonymous third party? Something was clearly wrong with my mind. Ever since I had started hearing that bell, I’d begun having doubts about whether my brain was functioning normally. With the bell, at least, Menshiki had been there and had heard the same sound, which proved that it wasn’t an auditory hallucination. My hearing was working fine. Okay, so what could this mysterious voice be?

  I sat back down on the stool and looked at the painting.

  What you must discover, can you see, is what Mr. Menshiki has that is not here. Sounded like a riddle. Like a wise bird deep in the forest showing lost children the way home. What Menshiki has that is not here—what could that be?

  It took a long time. The clock silently, regularly, ticked away the minutes, the pool of light from the small east-facing window silently shifted. Colorful, agile little birds flew onto the branches of a willow, gracefully searched for something, then flew away with a twitter. White clouds, like round slates, floated over the sky in a row. A single silver plane flew toward the sparkling sea. A four-engine propeller SDF plane, on antisubmarine patrol. Keeping their ears and eyes sharp and watchful, making the latent manifest, was their daily job. I listened as the engine drew closer and then flew away.

  And finally, a single fact struck me. Literally as plain as day. Why had I forgotten this? What Menshiki had that my portrait of him did not—it was all clear to me now. His white hair. That beautiful white hair, as pure white as newly fallen snow. Menshiki without that white hair was unimaginable. How could I miss something that important?

  I leaped up from the stool, went to my paint box and gathered up the white paint, picked a brush, and, without thinking, thickly, vigorously spread it on the canvas. I used a knife too, even my fingertip at one point. For fifteen minutes I painted, then stood back from the canvas, sat down on the stool, and checked out my work.

  And there, before me, was Menshiki the person. Without a doubt, he was in the painting now. His personality—no matter what that was made up of—was integrated, manifested in the painting. I had no handle on the person named Wataru Menshiki, and knew barely a thing about him. But as an artist I had captured him on canvas, as a synthesized image, as a single, indivisible package. Alive and breathing within the painting. Even the riddles about him were present.

  Still, no matter how you looked at it, this was no portrait. I’d succeeded (at least I felt I had) in artistically bringing the presence of Wataru Menshiki into relief on canvas. But the goal wasn’t to depict his outer appearance. That wasn’t the goal at all. That was the big difference between this work and a portrait. What I’d created was, at heart, a painting I’d done for my own sake.

  I couldn’t predict if Menshiki would accept this painting as his portrait. It might be light-years away from the kind of painting he’d been expecting. He’d told me to paint it any way I liked, and didn’t have any special requests about the style it was done in. But just possibly, there might be some element in the painting, something negative, that he himself didn’t want to recognize. Not that I could do anything about that now. Whether he liked the painting or not, it was already out of my hands, beyond my will.

  Seated on the stool, I kept staring at the portrait for nearly another half hour. I had painted it, that much I knew, but the end product outstripped the bounds of any logic or understanding I possessed. How had I painted something like that? I couldn’t even recall now. I stared dumbfounded at the painting, my feelings swinging from intimacy to total alienation. But one thing was sure—the colors and form were perfect.

  Maybe I was on the verge of finding an exit, I thought. Finally able to pass through the thick wall that stood in my way. But still, things had only begun. I had only just managed to grasp a kind of clue as to how to proceed. I would have to be extremely careful. Telling myself this, I went over to the sink and methodically cleaned the paint from the brushes and painting knife. I washed my hands with oil and soap. Then I went to the kitchen and drank several glasses of water. I was parched.

  All well and good, but who had moved the stool in the studio? (It had most definitely been moved.) And who had spoken in my ear in that strange voice? (I had clearly heard the voice.) And who had suggested to me what was missing from the painting? (A suggestion that had clearly been effective.)

  In all likelihood it was me—I’d done this myself. I’d unconsciously moved the stool, and given myself the suggestion about how to proceed. In a strange, roundabout way I must have freely intertwined my conscious and subconscious…I couldn’t think of any other explanation. Though of course this couldn’t be the case.

  * * *

  —

  At eleven, I was seated on a straight-backed chair, sipping hot tea and randomly mulling over things, when Menshiki’s silver Jaguar drove up. I’d been so wrapped up in painting that the appointment we’d made the day before had completely slipped my mind. Not to mention the auditory illusion, or the voice I must have imagined.

  Menshiki? Why is he here?

  “I’d really like to take a good look at the stone chamber again if I could,” Menshiki had said over the phone. As I listened to the now familiar growl of the V8 engine come to a halt, it all came back to me.

  18

  CURIOSITY DIDN’T JUST KILL THE CAT

  I went outside to greet Menshiki. It was the first time I’d done so. I didn’t have any particular reason, it just turned out that way. I wanted to get outside, stretch my legs, breathe some fresh air.

  Those round slate-shaped clouds still floated in the sky. Lots of these clouds formed far off in the sea, then were slowly carried on the southwest wind, one by one, toward the mountains. Did those beautiful, perfect circles form naturally, not from any practical design? It was a mystery. For a meteorologist maybe it was no mystery at all, but it was for me. Living on this mountaintop, I found myself attracted to all sorts of natural wonders.

  Menshiki had on a collared dark-red sweater, light and elegant. And well-worn jeans, so light blue they looked ready to fade away. The jeans were straight leg, made of soft material. To me (and I might be overthinking things) he always seemed to intentionally wear colors that made his white hair stand out. This dark-red sweater went very well with his white hair. His hair always was at just the right length. I had no idea how he kept it that way, but it was never any longer or shorter than it was right now.

  “I’d like to go and look into the pit right away, if it’s okay with you?” Menshiki asked. “See if anything’s changed.”

  “Okay by me,” I said. I hadn’t been back, either, in the woods since that day. I wanted to see how things were, too.

  “Sorry to bother you, but could you bring me the bell?” Menshiki asked.

  I went inside, took down the ancient bell from the studio shelf, and returned.

  Menshiki took a large flashlight from the trunk of his Jaguar and hung it from a strap around his neck. He set off for the woods, me tagging along. The woods seemed even a deeper color than before. In this season, every day brought changes to the mountains. Some trees were redder, others dyed a deeper yellow, and some stayed forever green. The combinati
on was truly beautiful. Menshiki, though, didn’t seem to care.

  “I looked into the background of this land a little,” he said while he walked. “Who owned it up till now, what it was used for, that sort of thing.”

  “Did you find out something?”

  Menshiki shook his head. “No, next to nothing. I was expecting that it might have been some religious site, but according to what I found that wasn’t the case. I couldn’t find out any background as to why there would be a small shrine and stone tumulus here. It was apparently just an ordinary piece of mountainous land. Then it was partly cleared and a house was built. Tomohiko Amada purchased the land along with the house in 1955. Prior to that, a politician had used it as a mountain retreat. You probably haven’t heard of him, but he held a Cabinet position back before the war. After the war he essentially lived in retirement. I couldn’t trace back who owned the place before that.”

  “It’s a little strange that a politician would go to the trouble of having a vacation home in such a remote place.”

  “A lot of politicians had retreats here back then. Prince Fumimaro Konoe, prime minister just before World War Two, had a summer retreat just a couple of mountains over from here. It’s on the way to Hakone and Atami, and must have been a perfect spot for people to gather for secret talks. It’s hard to keep it secret when VIPs get together in Tokyo.”

  We moved the thick boards that lay covering the hole.

  “I’m going to go down inside,” Menshiki said. “Would you wait for me?”

  “I’ll be here,” I said.

  Menshiki climbed down the mental ladder the contractor had left for us. The ladder creaked a bit with each step. I watched him from above. When he got to the bottom he took the flashlight from around his neck, switched it on, and carefully checked his surroundings. He rubbed the stone wall, and pounded his fist against it.

  “This wall is solidly made, and pretty intricate,” Menshiki said, looking up at me. “I don’t think it’s just some well that’s been filled in halfway. If it was a well, it would just be a lot of stones piled up on top of each other. They wouldn’t have done such a meticulous job.”

  “You think it was built for some other purpose?”

  Menshiki shook his head, indicating that he had no idea. “Anyway, the wall is made so you can’t easily climb out. There aren’t any spaces to get a foothold. The hole’s less than nine feet deep, but scrambling to the top wouldn’t be an easy feat.”

  “You mean it was built that way, to be hard to climb up?”

  Menshiki shook his head again. He didn’t know. No clue.

  “I’d like you to do something for me,” Menshiki said.

  “What would that be?”

  “Would it be an imposition for you to pull up the ladder, and put the cover on tight so no light gets in?”

  That left me speechless.

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry,” Menshiki said. “I’d like to experience what it’s like to be shut up here, in the bottom of the dark pit, by myself. No plans to turn into a mummy yet, though.”

  “How long do you plan to be down there?”

  “When I want to get out, I’ll ring the bell. When you hear the bell, take off the cover and lower down the ladder. If an hour passes without you hearing the bell, come and remove the cover. I don’t plan to be down here over an hour. Please don’t forget that I’m down here. If you did forget, I really would turn into a mummy.”

  “The mummy hunter becomes a mummy.”

  Menshiki laughed. “Exactly.”

  “There’s no way I’ll forget. But are you sure it’s okay, doing that?”

  “I’m curious. I’d like to try sitting for a while at the bottom of a dark pit. I’ll give you the flashlight. And you can hand me the bell.”

  He climbed halfway up the ladder and held out the flashlight for me. I took it, and held out the bell. He took the bell and gave it a little shake. It rang out clearly.

  “But if—just supposing—I were attacked by vicious hornets on the way and fell unconscious, or even died, then you might never be able to get out of here. You never know what’s going to happen in this world.”

  “Curiosity always involves risk. You can’t satisfy your curiosity without accepting some risk. Curiosity didn’t just kill the cat.”

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” I said.

  “Watch out for the hornets,” Menshiki said.

  “And you take care down there in the dark.”

  Menshiki didn’t reply, and just looked up at me, as if trying to decipher some meaning in my expression as I gazed down at him. There was some kind of vagueness in his eyes, like he was straining to focus on my face, but couldn’t. It was an uncertain expression, not at all like him. Then, as if reconsidering things, he sat down on the ground and leaned against the curved stone wall. He looked up and raised his hand a little. All set, he was telling me. I yanked up the ladder, pulled the thick boards over so they completely covered up the hole, and set some heavy stones on top of that. A small amount of light might filter in through narrow cracks between the boards, though inside the hole should be dark enough. I thought about calling out to Menshiki from on top of the cover, but thought better of it. What he wanted was solitude and silence.

  * * *

  —

  I went back home, boiled water, and made tea. I sat on the sofa and picked up where I’d left off in a book. I couldn’t focus on reading, though, since my ears were alert for the sound of the bell. Every five minutes I checked my watch, and imagined Menshiki, alone in the bottom of that dark hole. What an odd person, I thought. He uses his own money to hire a landscape contractor, who uses heavy equipment to move that pile of stones and open up the entrance to that hole. And now Menshiki was confined there, all by himself. Or rather, deliberately shut away in there at his own request.

  Whatever, I thought. Whatever necessity or intentions motivated it (assuming there was some kind of necessity or intention), that was Menshiki’s problem, and I could leave it all up to him. I was an unthinking actor in someone else’s plan. I gave up reading the book, lay down on the sofa, closed my eyes, but of course didn’t fall asleep. This was no time to be sleeping.

  An hour passed without the bell ringing. Or maybe I’d somehow missed the sound. Either way, it was time to get that cover off. I got up off the sofa, slipped on my shoes, and went outside and into the woods. I was a bit apprehensive that hornets or a wild boar might appear, but neither did. Just some tiny birds, Japanese white-eyes, flitted right past me. I walked through the woods and went around behind the shrine. I removed the heavy stones and took off just one of the boards.

  “Mr. Menshiki!” I called out into the gap. But there was no response. What I could see of the hole from the gap was pitch dark, and I couldn’t make out his figure there.

  “Mr. Menshiki!” I called again. But again no answer. I was getting worried. Maybe he’d vanished, like the mummy that should have been there had vanished. I knew it wasn’t logically possible, but still I was seriously concerned.

  I quickly removed another board, and then another. Finally the sunlight reached to the bottom of the pit. And I could see Menshiki’s outline seated there.

  “Mr. Menshiki, are you okay?” I asked, relieved.

  He looked up, as if finally coming to, and gave a small nod. He covered his face with his hands, as if the light was too bright.

  “I’m fine,” he answered quietly. “I’d just like to stay here for a little longer. It’ll take time for my eyes to adjust to the light.”

  “It’s been exactly an hour. If you’d like to stay there longer I could put the cover on again.”

  Menshiki shook his head. “No, this is enough. I’m okay now. I can’t stay any longer here. It might be too dangerous.”

  “Too dangerous?”

  “I’ll explain later,” Menshiki said. He
stroked his face hard with both hands, as if rubbing something away from his skin.

  * * *

  —

  Five minutes later he slowly got to his feet and clambered up the metal ladder I’d let down. Once again at ground level he brushed the dirt off his pants and looked up at the sky with narrowed eyes. The blue autumn sky was visible through the tree branches. For a long time he gazed lovingly at the sky. We lined up the boards and covered the hole as before, so no one would accidentally fall into it. Then we put the heavy stones on top. I memorized the position of the stones, so I’d know if anyone moved them. The ladder we left inside the pit.

  “I didn’t hear the bell,” I said as we walked along.

  Menshiki shook his head. “I didn’t shake it.”

  That’s all he said, so I didn’t ask anything more.

  We walked out of the woods and headed home. Menshiki took the lead as we walked and I followed behind. Without a word he put the flashlight back in the trunk of the Jaguar. We then sat down in the living room and drank hot coffee. Menshiki still hadn’t said a thing. He seemed preoccupied. Not that he wore a serious expression or anything, but his mind was clearly in a place far away. A place, no doubt, where only he was allowed to be. I didn’t bother him, and let him be. Just like Doctor Watson used to do with Sherlock Holmes.

  During this time I mentally went over my schedule. That evening I had to drive down the mountain to teach my classes at the local arts-and-culture center near Odawara Station. I’d look over paintings students had done and give them advice. This was the day when I had back-to-back children’s and adults’ classes. This was just about the only opportunity I had to see and speak with living people. Without those classes I’d probably live like a hermit up here in the mountains, and if I went on living all alone, I’d likely start to lose my mind, just as Masahiko said.

  Which is why I should have been thankful for the chance to come in contact with the real world. But truth be told, I found it hard to feel that way. The people I met in the classroom were less living beings than mere shadows crossing my path. I smiled at each one of them, called them by name, and critiqued their paintings. No, critique isn’t the right term. I just praised them. I’d find some good component to each painting—if there wasn’t, I’d make up something—and praise them for a job well done.