Killing Commendatore

by Haruki Murakami

  “But the paint can’t be dry yet, can it?”

  “He said he’d make sure it dries properly,” I said. “He seemed eager to have the painting as quickly as possible. I don’t know, maybe he was worried I might change my mind and not give it to him.”

  “Hmm,” Masahiko said, impressed. “Do you have any new work, then?”

  “I started on something this morning,” I said. “But it’s still just a charcoal sketch, so even if you saw it, it wouldn’t mean anything.”

  “That’s okay. Would you mind showing it to me?”

  I took him into the studio and showed him the sketch for The Man with the White Subaru Forester. It was just a rough sketch in charcoal, but Masahiko stood in front of the easel, arms folded, a hard look on his face.

  “Interesting,” he said a little later, squeezing the words out between his teeth.

  I was silent.

  “It’s hard to tell how it’s going to develop, but it certainly does look like someone’s portrait. Like the root of a portrait. A root buried deep in the ground.” He was silent for a time.

  “In a very deep, dark place,” he went on. “And this man—it is a man, right?—is angry about something? What is he blaming?”

  “You got me. I haven’t got that far.”

  “You haven’t got that far,” Masahiko repeated in a monotone. “But there really is a deep anger and sadness here. And he can’t spit it out. The anger is swirling around inside him.”

  In college Masahiko was in the oil painting department, though to be blunt about it, he wasn’t known as a great painter. He was skilled enough, but his work lacked depth, something he himself admitted. He was, however, blessed with the skill of being able to instantly evaluate other people’s paintings. So whenever I felt stuck doing one of my own paintings, I’d ask his opinion. His advice was always accurate and impartial, as well as practical. And thankfully he had no sense of jealousy or rivalry. I guess this was part of his personality, something he was born with. I always could believe what he told me. He never minced words, but had no ulterior motives, so oddly enough even when his criticism was pretty scathing, I never felt upset.

  “When you finish this painting, before you give it to anyone else, could you let me take a look at it, even just for a minute?” he asked, eyes never leaving the painting.

  “Sure,” I said. “No one commissioned me to do this. I’m just painting it for myself. I don’t plan to turn it over to anyone.”

  “You want to do your own painting now, right?”

  “Seems that way.”

  “It’s a portrait of sorts, but not a formal portrait.”

  I nodded. “You could put it that way, I suppose.”

  “You might be…discovering a new destination for yourself.”

  “I’d like to think so,” I said.

  * * *

  —

  “I saw Yuzu the other day,” Masahiko said as he was leaving. “Happened to bump into her, and we talked for a half hour or so.”

  I nodded but said nothing. I had no idea what I should say, or how I should react.

  “She seemed fine. We didn’t talk about you much. It was like we both wanted to avoid the topic. You get it, that feeling? But at the end she did ask about you. What you’re doing, that kind of thing. I told her you were painting. I don’t know what kind of paintings, I said, but I said you’re holed up on a mountaintop and painting something.”

  “I’m alive, at least,” I said.

  Masahiko seemed to want to say something more about Yuzu but thought better of it, and clammed up. Yuzu had always liked him and had apparently gone to him for advice. Probably things that had to do with the two of us. Just like I often went to him for advice about paintings. But Masahiko didn’t tell me anything. He was that kind of guy. People often sought his advice, but he kept it all inside. Like rain running down a gutter and into a rainwater tank. It doesn’t leave there, doesn’t spill over the sides. He probably adjusted the amount of water inside as needed.

  Masahiko didn’t seem to ask anyone else for advice about his own troubles. He must have had plenty, as the son of a famous artist who went to art school but wasn’t blessed with much talent as an artist. There must have been things he wanted to talk over. I’ve known him for a long time, but I don’t recall ever hearing him complain about anything, even once. That’s the type of man he was.

  “Yuzu had a lover, I think,” I went ahead and said. “During the last part of our marriage she stopped having sex with me. I should have known something was going on.”

  It was the first time I’d confessed this to anyone. I had kept it all inside until this moment.

  “I see,” was all Masahiko said.

  “But you already knew that much, didn’t you?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Am I wrong?” I asked again.

  “There are things people are better off not knowing. That’s all I can say.”

  “But whether you know it or not, it ends up the same. Sooner or later, suddenly or not suddenly, with a loud knock or a soft one, that’s the only difference.”

  Masahiko sighed. “Yeah. You might be right. Whether you knew about it or not, the end result is the same. But still, there are things I can’t talk about.”

  I was silent.

  “No matter how things end up, everything has both a good and bad side. I’m sure breaking up with Yuzu was hard on you. And I feel for you. I really do. But because of that you’ve finally begun painting what you want to paint. You’ve discovered your own style. A kind of silver lining, wouldn’t you say?”

  Maybe he was right. If I hadn’t split up with Yuzu—I mean, if Yuzu hadn’t left me—I’d probably still be painting run-of-the-mill portraits to make a living. But that wasn’t a choice I made myself. That’s the important point.

  “Try to look on the bright side,” Masahiko said as he was leaving. “This might sound like dumb advice, but if you’re going to walk down a road, it’s better to walk down the sunny side, right?”

  “And the cup still has one-sixteenth of the water left.”

  Masahiko laughed. “I like your sense of humor.”

  I hadn’t said it to be humorous, but didn’t comment.

  Masahiko was silent for a time, and then spoke up. “Do you still love Yuzu?”

  “I know I have to forget her, but my heart’s still clinging to her and won’t let go. That’s just the way it is.”

  “You don’t plan to sleep with other women?”

  “Even if I did, Yuzu would always come between me and the other woman.”

  “That’s a problem,” he said. He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. He really did look perplexed.

  He got in his car and prepared to drive away.

  “Thanks for the whiskey,” I said. It was not yet five p.m. but the sky was pretty dark. The season when the night gets longer with each passing day.

  “Actually, I wanted to have a drink with you,” he said, “but I’m driving. Someday soon let’s go out and do some serious drinking together. It’s been ages.”

  “We’ll do it soon,” I said.

  There are things people are better off not knowing, Masahiko had said. Maybe so. There are probably things people are better off not hearing, as well. But they can’t go forever without hearing them. When the time comes, even if they stop their ears up tight, the air will vibrate and invade a person’s heart. You can’t prevent it. If you don’t like it, then the only solution is to live in a vacuum.

  * * *

  —

  It was the middle of the night when I woke up. I fumbled for the light next to my bed and looked at the clock. The digital readout showed 1:35. I could hear the bell ringing. That bell, no mistake. I sat up and listened to where the sound was coming from.

  The bell started ringing again.
Someone was ringing it in the middle of the night—and it was much louder, much clearer than ever.

  21

  IT’S SMALL, BUT SHOULD YOU CUT WITH IT, BLOOD WILL CERTAINLY COME OUT

  I sat upright in bed, and in the dark of night I held my breath and listened to the sound of the bell. Where could the sound be coming from? It was louder than before, and clearer. No doubt about it. And it was coming from an entirely new direction.

  The bell was ringing inside this house. I could come to no other conclusion. And from a jumble of memories came the recollection that the bell had been resting on a shelf in my studio for a few days. After we uncovered that hole I’d put the bell there myself.

  The sound of the bell was coming from the studio.

  Absolutely no doubt.

  But what should I do? I was shaken, and scared. Something truly weird was taking place inside this house, under the same roof. It was the middle of the night, in an isolated house in the mountains, and I was all alone. I couldn’t help but be afraid. When I thought about it later, I think my confusion surpassed my fear at that point. The human brain is probably constructed that way. All the emotions and feelings you have are mobilized to blunt, or mitigate, fear and distress. Like at a fire, where every single container that can hold water is put to use.

  I tried to gather my thoughts and figure out what to do. One choice was to pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep. The method Masahiko advocated, to ignore the inexplicable. Switch your mind off, see nothing, hear nothing. The problem was, there was no way I could go back to sleep. Even if I put my head under the covers, stopped up my ears, and switched off my mind, there was no way I could ignore the bell when it rang out this clearly. Because it was ringing inside this very house.

  As always, the bell rang intermittently a few times, then came a short silence, then the bell rang out again. The silence in between was never uniform, each time a little shorter or longer than before. There was a strange human feel to that lack of uniformity. The bell wasn’t ringing by itself. No device was being used to ring it. Someone was holding it and ringing it. It was sending out a message.

  If I can’t escape it, then all I can do is get the facts. If this keeps up, then I’ll never get to sleep and my life will be totally upended. I decided to take the initiative and find out what was happening in the studio. A bit of anger was included in this—why did I have to go through this? And of course there was a dash of curiosity thrown in as well. I wanted to be certain, with my own eyes, what was going on here.

  I got out of bed and threw on a cardigan over my pajamas. I grabbed a flashlight and went out to the front entrance. I grabbed the oak walking stick that Tomohiko Amada had left behind in an umbrella stand. A sturdy, heavy stick. I didn’t think it would be useful, but holding something in my hand bucked up my courage. I had to be ready for anything.

  Needless to say, I was scared. I was barefoot, but could barely feel the floor. My body was stiff, as if every bone in my body creaked with each step. Someone must have snuck into the house. And that someone was ringing the bell. And it must be the same person who was ringing the bell at the bottom of the hole. Who—or what—that was, I couldn’t predict. Was it a mummy? Say I set foot in the studio and really did confront a mummy—a shriveled-up man the color of beef jerky—shaking the bell, how should I react? Smack him with Tomohiko Amada’s walking stick?

  No way, I thought. I can’t do that. The mummy would have to be a Buddhist priest who’d mummified himself. We weren’t talking about a zombie.

  Okay, so what should I do? I was still confused. Or rather, my confusion had grown worse. If I had no good way of dealing with the situation, did that mean I’d have to resign myself to sharing the house with a mummy? Putting up with that bell at the same time every night?

  I suddenly thought of Menshiki. This problem had arisen because of him. Because he’d done things he shouldn’t have. Because he’d used heavy equipment to move the stone mound and uncover the mysterious hole, some unknown being had entered this house along with the bell. I thought of calling him. Despite the late hour I could picture him rushing over in his Jaguar. But I gave up the idea. I didn’t have time to wait for him to get ready and drive over. I had to do something right here, and right now. I had to make this my responsibility.

  I steeled myself and stepped into the living room and turned on the light. Even with the light on, the bell kept on ringing. I could clearly hear it coming from beyond the door leading into the studio. I re-gripped the walking stick in my right hand, tiptoed across the large living room, and put my hand on the doorknob of the studio door. I took a deep breath, made up my mind, and turned the knob. As if waiting for me to do that, the second I pushed open the door, the bell stopped cold. A deep silence descended.

  The studio was pitch black, and I couldn’t see a thing. I reached out to the left-hand wall, fumbled for the light switch, and snapped it on. The pendant light on the ceiling came on and the room was suddenly bathed in light. I stood, legs shoulder-width apart, walking stick in hand, ready to respond to anything, and quickly scanned the room. The tension made my throat so parched that I could hardly swallow.

  No one was in the studio. No shriveled-up mummy ringing the bell. No one was there. There was the easel standing by itself in the middle of the room, with a canvas on it. In front of the easel was the old three-legged wooden stool. That was all. The studio was deserted. I couldn’t hear a single insect. There was no wind. The white curtain hung down at the window, the whole scene bathed in an unearthly silence. The walking stick was shaking, I was so tense. As it shook, the tip of the stick made an irregular click against the floor.

  The bell was still on the shelf. I went over and studied it carefully. I didn’t pick the bell up, but I didn’t see anything different about it. It was the same as when I’d picked it up in the afternoon and returned it to the shelf, with no evidence of having been moved.

  I sat on the stool in front of the easel and once more scanned the room, examining every inch of it. But I still didn’t see anyone. It was the same scene I was used to. The painting on the easel was the rough sketch I’d begun of The Man with the White Subaru Forester.

  I glanced at the clock on the shelf. It was exactly 2 a.m. It was 1:35, as I recall, when the bell woke me up, so twenty-five minutes had passed. It didn’t feel like that much time had passed. It felt more like five or six minutes. My sense of time was messed up. Or else the passage of time itself was messed up. One of the two.

  I gave up, got down from the stool, turned off the light in the studio, went out, and shut the door. I stood in front of the closed door for a while, my ears perked up, but couldn’t hear the bell anymore. I couldn’t hear anything, only the silence. Hearing silence—this was no play on words. On an isolated mountaintop, silence had a sound. I stood there before the door to the studio and listened to that sound.

  Just then I noticed something on the sofa in the living room I hadn’t seen before. It was as big as a cushion or a doll. But I had no memory of putting it there. I looked closer and saw it was no cushion or doll. It was a small, living person, about two feet tall. That little person was wearing odd-looking white clothes. And he was squirming around, like he was uncomfortable in his outfit. I’d seen that ancient, traditional garb before. The kind a high-ranking person would have worn in ancient times in Japan. And it wasn’t just the clothes—I remembered the person’s face, too.

  The Commendatore.

  My body felt frozen. As if a fist-sized lump of ice were slowly crawling up my spine. The Commendatore from the painting Killing Commendatore was sitting on the sofa in my house—or, more precisely, Tomohiko Amada’s house—and looking straight at me. The little man was dressed exactly like in the painting, with the same face. As if he’d escaped directly from the painting.

  I tried to recall where I’d put it. That’s right, I remembered, it was in the guest bedroom. Not want
ing anyone visiting the house to see it, I’d wrapped it in brown washi paper and had hidden it there. If this man had escaped, then what had happened to the painting? Was it solely the Commendatore who had vanished from the canvas?

  But was that possible? That a person in a picture could escape from it? Of course not. That’s impossible. Obviously. No matter what anybody might think…

  I stood there, rooted to the spot, the thread of logic lost, random thoughts racing through my head as I gazed at the Commendatore on the sofa. Time temporarily stopped moving forward, shifting back and forth as if waiting for my confusion to subside. I couldn’t take my eyes off that bizarre character—all I could think was that he had somehow come from the spirit world. For his part, the Commendatore stared up at me, from the sofa. I had no words, and was silent. The shock must have done it. I was capable of nothing, other than to keep my eyes on him and breathe, my mouth slightly ajar.

  The Commendatore didn’t take his eyes off me either, and he didn’t say a word. His lips were shut tight. On the sofa he flung his short legs out straight in front of him. He leaned back against the sofa, though his head didn’t reach to the top. On his feet were oddly shaped shoes. They seemed made out of black leather, the tips pointed and curled upward. At his waist he wore a long sword with a decorated shaft. A long sword, yet of a size to fit his build, so actually nearer in length to a short sword for a normal person. But a lethal weapon all the same. Assuming it was a real sword.

  “A real sword it is,” the Commendatore said pleasantly, as if reading my mind. His voice carried, despite his small stature. “Affirmative! It’s small, but should you cut with it, blood will certainly come out.”

  Even with this new information, I remained silent. No words came. My first thought was, Oh, so he can talk? My next thought was that he sure had an odd way of speaking. It was not the way ordinary people would speak. But then again, the little two-foot Commendatore was in no way ordinary. So whatever his manner of speech, it shouldn’t be surprising.