Killing Commendatore

by Haruki Murakami

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said. She was so worked up it seemed as if she was going to go on talking forever, and I had to put a stop to that. “I can’t breathe well in here.”

  “Are you okay?” my sister asked, worried.

  “I’m okay. I just want to go outside.”

  Holding hands, we headed for the exit.

  “Do you know?” my sister said in a small voice as we walked so no one else would hear (though there wasn’t anyone else around). “Alice really existed. It wasn’t made up, it was real. The March Hare, the Walrus, the Cheshire Cat, the Playing Card soldiers—they all really exist.”

  “Maybe so,” I said.

  We emerged from the wind hole, back to the bright real world. There was a thin layer of clouds in the sky that afternoon, but I remember how strong the sunlight seemed. The screech of the cicadas was overpowering, like a violent squall drowning everything out. My uncle was seated on a bench near the entrance, absorbed in a book. When he saw us, he grinned and stood up.

  Two years later, my sister died. And was put in a tiny coffin and cremated. I was fifteen, and she was twelve. While she was being cremated I went off, apart from the rest of the family, sat on a bench in the courtyard of the crematorium, and remembered what had happened in that wind hole. The weight of time as I waited by that small cave for my little sister to come out, the thickness of the darkness enveloping me, the chill I felt to my core. Her black hair emerging from the hole, then her shoulders. All the random dirt and dust stuck to her white T-shirt.

  At that time a thought struck me: that maybe even before the doctor at the hospital officially pronounced her dead two years later, her life had already been snatched from her while she was deep inside that cave. I was actually convinced of it. She’d already been lost within that hole, and left this world, but I, mistakenly thinking she was still alive, had put her on the train with me and taken her back to Tokyo. Holding her hand tightly. And we’d lived as brother and sister for two more years. But that was nothing more than a fleeting grace period. Two years later, death had crawled out of that cave to grab hold of my sister’s soul. As if time was up, it was necessary to pay for what had been lent, and the owner had come to take back what was his.

  At any rate now, at thirty-six, I realized again that what my little sister had confided to me in a quiet voice in that wind hole was indeed true. Alice really does exist in the world. The March Hare, the Walrus, the Cheshire Cat—they all really exist. And the Commendatore too, of course.

  * * *

  —

  The weather report was off the mark and we didn’t have a rainstorm. Just after five a very light rain began—so fine that you could hardly tell if it was falling or not—and continued till the next morning. Right at six p.m. a large, shiny black sedan slowly made its way up the slope. It reminded me of a hearse, but of course it wasn’t one, but the limousine Menshiki had sent for me. A Nissan Infiniti. The driver, in black uniform and hat, alighted from the car and, umbrella in one hand, came over to the front door and rang the bell. I opened the door and he took off his hat and made sure of my name. I left the house and got into the car. I declined the umbrella. It wasn’t raining hard enough for one. The driver opened the rear door for me. Once I was inside, he closed it with a solid thunk (a little different from the sound of Menshiki’s Jaguar). I wore a black, light, round-necked sweater, gray herringbone jacket, dark-gray wool trousers, and black suede shoes. The most formal outfit I owned. At least it didn’t have paint stains.

  Even after the limo came, the Commendatore still hadn’t appeared. And I hadn’t heard his voice. So I had no way of making sure he’d remembered the invitation from Menshiki. But he must have. He’d been looking forward to it so much there was no way he’d forgotten.

  But I worried for nothing. Soon after the car had set off, I suddenly found the Commendatore, with a nonchalant look on his face, seated beside me. He was dressed in his usual white outfit (looking like it had just come from the cleaners, without a single stain), with the jewel-encrusted long sword at his waist. He was, as always, about two feet high. The whiteness and purity of his clothes stood out even more against the black leather seats of the Infiniti. He stared straight ahead, his arms folded.

  “Do not say anything to me,” the Commendatore said, as if reminding me. “My friends can see me, but others cannot. My friends can hear me, but others cannot. If you talk to something that cannot be seen, people will think you are very strange. Affirmative? Nod, please, if you understand.”

  I nodded slightly one time. The Commendatore bobbed his head in response, and afterward sat there silently, his arms folded.

  It was dark out. The crows had already withdrawn to their mountain roosts. The Infiniti slowly descended the slope, drove down the road in the valley, and came to a steep slope. It wasn’t that long a distance (we were just going to the other side of a narrow valley, after all), but the road was narrow, with plenty of curves. The type of road a driver of a large sedan would not be happy to navigate. The type of road more suited to a four-wheel-drive military vehicle. But the driver’s expression didn’t change a bit as he calmly handled the car, and we arrived safely at Menshiki’s mansion.

  The mansion was surrounded by a high white wall, with a solid gate in front. Large wooden double doors painted a dark brown. Like the castle gate in an Akira Kurosawa film set in the Middle Ages. The kind that would look good with a couple of arrows embedded in it. The inside was completely hidden from view. Next to the gate was a plate with the house number, but no nameplate. Probably no need to have one. If someone was going to go to the trouble of coming all the way up to the top of this mountain, they would automatically know this was Menshiki’s mansion. The area around the gate was brightly lit by mercury lamps. The driver got out, rang the bell, and spoke for a moment with someone on the intercom. Then he got back in his seat and waited for the gate to open remotely. There were two movable security cameras, one on each side of the gate.

  The double doors slowly opened inward, and the driver entered, proceeding leisurely down the curving road on the grounds. The road was a gentle downward slope. I heard the doors close behind us—a heavy sound, as if informing us that there was no return to the world from which we had come. Pine trees lined both sides of the road, all neatly trimmed. The branches were beautifully arranged, like bonsai, and careful measures were obviously taken to keep them from getting any disease. Along the road was also a trim hedge of azaleas. Beyond this there were Japanese roses, and a clump of camellias. The house might be new, but the trees and plants all seemed to have been there since long ago. All of these were beautifully illuminated by garden lanterns.

  The road ended in a circular asphalt-covered driveway. As soon as the driver parked, he leaped out the driver’s side and opened the back door for me. I looked beside me but didn’t see the Commendatore. But I wasn’t particularly surprised, and didn’t mind. He had his own patterns of behavior.

  The taillights of the Infiniti politely and gracefully disappeared into the twilight darkness, leaving me standing there alone. Seen from the front like this, the house looked much cozier and less imposing than I’d expected. When I’d looked at it from across the valley it seemed like an overbearing, gaudy structure. Perhaps the impression changed depending on the angle. The front gate was at the highest point of the mountain, and then, descending the slope, the house was built as if to deliberately make use of the angle of inclination of the land.

  On either side of the front door were two old stone statues, a pair of the komainu guardian dog figures found in Shinto shrines. On pedestals as well. They might actually have been real komainu brought over from somewhere. There were plantings of azaleas at the entrance, too. In May the place must be pretty colorful.

  As I slowly walked toward the front door, it opened from inside and Menshiki appeared. He had on a dark-green cardigan over a white button-down shirt, and cream-
colored chinos. His pure white hair was, as always, neatly combed and arranged naturally. It felt strange to see Menshiki welcoming me to his own house. I’d always seen Menshiki when he roared up to my house in his Jaguar.

  He invited me in and closed the front door. The entrance foyer was spacious and nearly square, with a high ceiling. A squash court could fit inside. The indirect lighting on the wall pleasantly lit the room, and on top of a large octagonal parquet table in the middle of the foyer was a large flower vase, Ming dynasty by the look of it, overflowing with a fresh flower arrangement. A mix of three different types of large flowers (I don’t know much about plants so don’t know the names). Probably he’d had them specially arranged just for this evening. A frugal college student could manage to live for a month on what Menshiki probably paid the florist. At least I could have, back when I was a student. There were no windows in the foyer, just a skylight in the ceiling. The floor was well-polished marble.

  The living room was down three wide steps, and though not quite big enough for a soccer field was definitely large enough for a tennis court. The southeast side was all tinted glass, with a large deck outside. It was dark, so I couldn’t tell if you could see the ocean from here, but I imagine you could. On the opposite wall was an open fireplace. It wasn’t the cold season yet so there was no fire lit, but firewood was neatly stacked up beside it, so a fire could be started at any time. I don’t know who had stacked it up, but it was placed so beautifully it looked like a work of art in itself. There was a mantelpiece above the fireplace, with a row of old Meissen figurines.

  The living room floor was also marble, but covered with a variety of rugs. Antique Persian rugs, with such exquisite patterns and colors they looked less like practical objects than artistic handicrafts. I hesitated to step on them. There were several low tables and a scattering of flower vases, all full of fresh flowers. Each vase looked like a valuable antique. It was all in nice taste, and expensive. Here’s hoping we don’t have a big earthquake, was my thought.

  The ceiling was high, the lighting subdued. Refined indirect lighting on the walls, a few floor lamps, and reading lamps on the tables. At the back of the room was a black grand piano. I’d never seen a Steinway concert grand piano in a room like this, one that made it seem smaller than it was. On top of the piano was a metronome and sheet music. Perhaps Menshiki played. Or maybe he invited Maurizio Pollini over for dinner every once in a while.

  Overall, though, the room was modestly decorated, and I felt relieved. There was nothing excessive, but it didn’t have an empty feeling. A comfortable room, despite the size. There was a certain sense of warmth about it, you might say. Half a dozen tasteful paintings graced the walls, all modestly displayed. One of them looked like a real Léger, but I could have been mistaken.

  Menshiki motioned me to a large brown leather sofa. He sat on a matching easy chair across from me. The sofa was extremely comfortable, neither too hard nor too soft. The kind of sofa that naturally adjusted to whoever sat on it. Of course if you think about it (not that it was something one had to think about), Menshiki wasn’t about to put an uncomfortable sofa in his living room.

  As if he’d been waiting for us to get settled, as soon as we did, a man glided in from somewhere. A stunningly handsome young man. He wasn’t so tall, but was slim and had a refined bearing about him. His skin was evenly tanned, with lustrous hair done up in a ponytail. He would look good at the beach, in surfing shorts, carrying a shortboard, though today he was dressed in a clean white shirt and black bow tie. A pleasant smile played about his lips.

  “Would you care for a cocktail?” he asked me. ““Please order whatever you’d like.”

  “I’ll have a Balalaika,” I said, after considering it for a few seconds. Not that I really wanted a Balalaika, but I wanted to test the young bartender to see if he really could make any kind of drink.

  “I’ll have the same,” Menshiki said.

  The young man smiled pleasantly and soundlessly withdrew.

  I glanced at the spot next to me on the sofa but didn’t see the Commendatore. But he had to be here somewhere in the house. He’d ridden with me in the car up to the house, and had come along with me.

  “Is something the matter?” Menshiki asked me. He’d followed my glance.

  “No, just admiring your gorgeous house.”

  “It’s a little too much, don’t you think?” Menshiki said, a smile rising to his face.

  “No, it’s much more serene than I imagined,” I answered honestly. “From a distance it does look a bit luxurious. Like a luxury cruise ship on the ocean. But inside it’s surprisingly relaxed. My impression’s completely changed.”

  Menshiki listened and nodded. “I’m happy to hear that, but it took quite a lot of work to get it to that point. I bought the house already built, and when I purchased it, it was pretty gaudy. Flashy, you might say. A man who ran a big-box store built it. The extremes of bad taste of the nouveau riche, you could say, and not my style at all. So I did a huge renovation after I bought it. Which took a lot of time, effort, and money.”

  As if remembering all that work, Menshiki looked down and sighed. It really must not have suited his taste at all.

  “Wouldn’t it have been a lot cheaper to build your own house?” I asked.

  Menshiki smiled, his white teeth peeking from between his lips. “You’re absolutely right. That would have been the sensible thing to do. But I had my own reasons. Reasons why it had to be this house and no other.”

  I waited for the story to go on, but it didn’t.

  “Wasn’t the Commendatore supposed to be with you tonight?” Menshiki asked.

  “I think he’ll be along later,” I said. “We were together on the trip up to your house and then he suddenly vanished. I think he must be taking a tour of your house. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Menshiki spread his hands wide. “Of course. Of course I don’t mind. He’s welcome to look around as much as he likes.”

  The young man from before appeared, carrying two cocktails on a silver tray. The cocktail glasses were exquisitely cut crystal. Baccarat, would be my guess. They glittered in the light from the floor lamp. Next to them was a Koimari ceramic plate with slices of various cheeses and cashews. There were small monogrammed linen napkins and a set of silver knives and forks. Everything well thought out.

  Menshiki and I picked up our cocktail glasses and made a toast. He toasted the completion of his portrait, and I thanked him. We lightly put our lips to the rim of the glasses. A Balalaika is made of one part each of vodka, Cointreau, and lemon juice. A simple concoction, but unless it’s as bitingly freezing as the North Pole, it doesn’t taste good. If somebody who doesn’t have the right touch mixes it, it ends up tasting diluted, watery. This Balalaika was amazingly delicious, with an almost perfect bite to it.

  “This is delicious,” I said, impressed.

  “He’s quite good,” Menshiki said lightly.

  Of course he is, I thought. Menshiki wasn’t about to hire a bad bartender. And of course he had Cointreau on hand, antique crystal glasses, and a Koimari serving plate.

  As we sipped our cocktails and munched on some nuts, we talked about various topics. Mainly about my painting. He asked what I was working on now and I explained. I told him I was working on a portrait of a man whose name and background I knew nothing about, someone I had encountered in a distant town.

  “A portrait?” Menshiki asked, sounding surprised.

  “A portrait, but not a typical commercial portrait. More of an abstract-style portrait, one in which I let my imagination run free. But the motif is definitely a portrait. You might say it’s the foundation of the painting.”

  “Like when you painted my portrait?”

  “Exactly. Though this time I wasn’t commissioned. It’s something I decided to paint on my own.”

  Menshiki considered this. “Ma
ybe my portrait inspired you to be more creative?”

  “No doubt. Though I’m only at the point where my creativity is finally starting to kick in.”

  Menshiki took another soundless sip of his cocktail, with what I took to be a satisfied gleam deep in his eyes.

  “Nothing could make me happier,” he said. “The fact that I may have been of help to you, that is. If you don’t mind, could I see that new painting when it’s finished?”

  “I’d be happy to show it to you, provided I’m happy with the result.”

  I looked over at the grand piano in a corner of the room. “Do you play piano, Mr. Menshiki? That’s a beautiful instrument.”

  Menshiki nodded slightly. “I’m not good, but I do play a little. I took piano lessons as a child. Five or six years from the time I entered elementary school until I graduated. Then I got busy with schoolwork and quit taking lessons. I wish I hadn’t, but the piano lessons had worn me out. So my fingers don’t move the way I’d like them to, but I’m good at reading sheet music. I play some simple pieces every once in a while just for my own amusement, for a change of pace. I’m not good enough to play for other people, and I never touch the keys when other people are here.”

  I went ahead and asked a question I’d been wanting to ask for a long time. “Doesn’t it feel a little too spacious for you, living in such a big house all by yourself?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Menshiki replied immediately. “Not at all. I’ve always preferred being by myself. Consider the cerebral cortex for a moment. Humans are provided with a wonderfully precise and efficient cerebral cortex. But normally we use, at most, less than ten percent of it. We’ve been divinely provided with this amazing, highly efficient organ, but sadly we haven’t the ability to use it completely. You could compare it to a four-person family living in a magnificent, grand mansion but using only one small room. All the other rooms are unused and neglected. When you think that way, it’s not so unnatural that I live in this house by myself.”