Mariye nodded.
“She was born with a defective valve in her heart. She had a big operation, and everything was supposed to be okay, but for some reason there was still a problem. So she lived with a time bomb ticking inside her body. As a result, everyone in our family was more or less prepared for the worst. Her death didn’t hit us like a bolt from the blue, like when your mother was stung by hornets.”
“A bolt…?”
“A bolt from the blue,” I said. “A bolt of lightning that strikes from a cloudless sky. Something sudden and unexpected.”
“A bolt from the blue,” she said. “What characters is it written with?”
“The ‘blue’ is written with characters for ‘blue sky.’ ‘Bolt’ is really complicated—I can’t write it myself. In fact, I’ve never written it. If you’re curious, you should look it up in a dictionary when you get back home.”
“A bolt from the blue,” she repeated. She seemed to be storing the phrase in her mental filing cabinet.
“At any rate,” I went on, “we all had an idea what might happen. When it actually did, though—when she had a sudden heart attack and died, all in one day—our preparations didn’t make a bit of difference. Her death paralyzed me. And not just me, my whole family.”
“Did something change inside you after that?”
“Yes, completely. Both inside and outside. Time didn’t pass as it had before—it flowed differently. And, like you said, I had a problem connecting how things were before her death with the way they were after.”
Mariye stared at me without speaking for a full ten seconds. “Your sister meant a lot to you, didn’t she?” she said at last.
“Yes,” I nodded. “She did.”
Mariye studied her lap for a moment. “It’s because my memory is blocked,” she said, looking up, “that I have trouble recalling my mom. The kind of person she was, her face, the things she said to me. My dad doesn’t talk much about her either.”
All I knew about Mariye’s mother was the blow-by-blow account Menshiki had given me of the last time they had had sex. It had been on his office couch—the moment of Mariye’s conception, perhaps—and it was violent. Not a big help at the moment.
“You must remember something, even if it’s not much. After all, you lived with her till you were six.”
“Just the smell.”
“The smell of her body?”
“No, the smell of rain.”
“Rain?”
“It was raining then. So hard I could hear the drops hit the ground. But my mother was walking outside without an umbrella. So we walked through the rain together, holding hands. I think it was summer.”
“A summer shower, then?”
“I guess so. The pavement was hot from the sun, so it gave off that smell. That’s what I remember. We were high in the mountains, on some kind of observation deck. And my mother was singing a song.”
“What kind of song?”
“I can’t remember the melody. But I do remember some of the words. They were like, ‘The sun’s shining on a big green field across the river, but it’s been raining on this side for so long.’ Have you ever heard a song like that?”
It didn’t ring a bell. “No,” I replied. “I don’t think so.”
Mariye gave a little shrug. “I’ve asked different people, but no one knows it. I wonder why. Do you think maybe I made it up in my head?”
“Maybe she invented it there on the spot. For you.”
Mariye looked up at me and smiled. “I never thought about it like that before. If that’s true—it’s pretty cool.”
I think it was the first time I’d seen her smile. It was as if a ray of sunlight had shot through a crack in an overcast sky to illuminate one special spot. It was that kind of smile.
“Could you recognize the place if you went there again?” I asked. “Back to that same observation deck in the mountains?”
“Maybe,” Mariye said. “I’m not sure, but maybe.”
“I think it’s pretty cool that you carry that scene inside you.”
Mariye just nodded.
* * *
—
After that, we just sat back and listened to the birds chirping. The autumn sky outside the window was perfectly clear. Not a wisp of cloud anywhere. We were each in our own inner world, pursuing our own random thoughts.
It was Mariye who broke the silence. “Why’s that painting facing the wrong way?” she asked.
She was pointing at my oil painting (to be more precise, my attempted painting) of the man with the white Subaru Forester. The canvas was sitting on the floor, turned to the wall so that I wouldn’t have to look at it.
“I’m trying to paint a certain man. It’s a work in progress, but it’s not progressing right now.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure. I’ve just started it, though. I have a long way to go.”
I turned the canvas around and placed it on the easel. Mariye got up from her chair, walked over, and stood before it with her arms folded. The sharp gleam in her eyes had returned. Her lips were set in a straight line.
I had used three colors—red, green, and black—but still hadn’t given the man a distinct shape. My initial charcoal sketch was now totally obscured. He refused to be fleshed out any further, to have more color added to his form. But I knew he was there. I had grasped the essence of who he was. He was like a fish caught in a net. I had been trying to pull him out of the depths, and he was fighting me at every turn. At that point in our tug of war I had set the painting aside.
“This is where you stopped?” Mariye asked.
“That’s right. I couldn’t find a way to push it past this stage.”
“It looks pretty finished to me,” she murmured.
I stood next to her and looked at the painting again from her angle. Could she really see the man lurking there in the darkness?
“You mean I don’t need to add anything more?” I asked.
“Yeah, I think you should just leave it like this.”
I swallowed. She was echoing what the man with the white Subaru Forester had said almost word for word. Leave the painting alone. Don’t touch it again.
“Why do you think that?” I pressed.
Mariye didn’t answer right away. Instead, she studied the painting some more. She unfolded her arms and pressed her hands to her cheeks. As if they were hot, and she was trying to cool them.
“This painting is more than powerful enough as it is,” she said at last.
“More than powerful enough?”
“I think so.”
“You mean a not so good kind of power?”
Mariye didn’t answer. Her hands were still pressed to her cheeks.
“Do you know the man in the painting well?”
I shook my head. “No, to tell the truth he’s a complete stranger. I ran across him a while back. In a faraway town when I was on a long trip. We never talked, so I don’t know his name.”
“I can’t tell if the power is good or not. Maybe it could be either good or bad, depending on the situation. You know, like the way we see things changes depending on where we’re standing.”
“And you don’t think I should let that power come to the surface, right?”
She looked me in the eye. “Suppose you did and it turned out to be a not so good thing, what would you do? What if it tried to grab you?”
She was right. If it turned out to be a not so good thing, or indeed an evil thing, and it reached for me, what would I do then?
I took the canvas from the easel and set it back down on the floor, facing the wall. The moment its surface was hidden, the tension in the studio released its grip. It was a tangible sensation.
Perhaps I should pack it up and shut it away in the attic, I thought. Just as Tomohiko Am
ada had stashed Killing Commendatore there, to make sure no one could see it.
* * *
—
“All right, so then what do you think of that painting?” I asked, pointing to Killing Commendatore hanging on the wall.
“I like it,” Mariye said immediately. “Who did it?”
“It was painted by Tomohiko Amada, the man who owns this house.”
“It’s calling out to me. Like a caged bird crying to be set free. That’s the feeling I get.”
I looked at her. “Bird? What kind of bird?”
“I don’t know what kind of bird. Or what kind of cage. Or what they look like. It’s just my feeling. I think maybe this painting’s a little too difficult for me.”
“You’re not the only one. It’s too difficult for me, too. But I’m sure you’re right. There is a cry in this painting, a plea that the artist desperately wanted people to hear. I react the same way you do. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what that plea is.”
“Someone is murdering someone else. Out of passion.”
“Exactly. The young man has plunged a knife into the older man’s chest, exactly as he planned. The man being murdered can’t believe what’s happening. The others are in total shock at what’s taking place before their eyes.”
“Can there be a proper murder?”
I thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. It depends how you define ‘proper’ and ‘improper.’ Many people regard the death penalty as a proper form of murder.” Or assassination, I thought.
Mariye took a moment to respond. “It’s funny, a man’s being killed, and his blood is flying all over the place, but it’s not depressing. It’s like the painting is trying to take me someplace else. Someplace where things like ‘proper’ and ‘improper’ don’t matter.”
* * *
—
I didn’t pick up a brush that day. Instead, Mariye and I sat there in the bright studio talking about whatever crossed our minds. I kept a close eye on her, though, filing each expression and mannerism away in my mind. That stock of memories would become the flesh and blood of the portrait I wanted to paint.
“You didn’t draw anything today,” Mariye commented.
“There are days like this,” I said. “Time steals some things, but it gives us back others. Making time our ally is an important part of our work.”
Mariye said nothing, just studied my eyes. As if she was peering into a house, her face pressed against the window. She was contemplating the meaning of time.
* * *
—
When the chimes rang as always at noon, Mariye and I moved from the studio to the living room. Shoko Akikawa was sitting on the sofa, wearing her black-rimmed glasses, reading her paperback. She was so deep in the book it was hard to tell if she was breathing.
“What are you reading?” I asked, unable to bear the suspense any longer.
“If I told you what it was,” she said with a smile, marking her spot and closing the book, “it would jinx it. For some reason, every time I tell someone what I’m reading, I’m unable to finish. Something unexpected happens, and I have to break off partway through. It’s strange, but it’s true. So I’ve made it my policy not to reveal the title to anyone. I’d love to tell you about the book once I’m done, though.”
“No worries. I’m quite happy to wait until you’re finished. I could see how much you’re enjoying it, so I got curious.”
“It’s a fascinating book. Once I get into it I can’t stop. That’s why I’ve decided to read it only when I’m here. This way, two hours pass before I know it.”
“My aunt reads tons of books,” Mariye chimed in.
“I don’t have that much to do these days,” her aunt said. “So books are how I get by.”
“Do you have a job?” I asked.
She removed her glasses and gently massaged the crease between her eyebrows. “I volunteer at our local library once a week. I used to work at a private medical college in Tokyo. I was secretary to the president there. But I gave it up when I moved here.”
“That was when Mariye’s mother passed away, wasn’t it?”
“At the time, I thought it would just be temporary. That I would stay only until things got sorted out. But once I started living with Mariye it became hard to leave. So I’ve been here ever since. Of course, if my brother remarried, I would move back to the city.”
“I’d go with you if that happened,” Mariye said.
Shoko smiled politely but didn’t say anything.
“Why don’t you stay for lunch?” I asked the two of them. “I can whip up a pasta and salad in no time.”
Shoko hesitated, as I knew she would, but Mariye seemed excited by the idea.
“Why not?” she told her aunt. “Dad isn’t home.”
“It’s really no problem,” I said. “I’ve got lots of sauce already made, so it’s no more trouble to cook for three than for one.”
“Are you sure?” Shoko said, looking doubtful.
“Of course. Please do stay. I eat alone all the time. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, every day. I’d like to share a meal with others for a change.”
Mariye looked at her aunt.
“Well, in that case we’ll take you up on your kind invitation,” Shoko said. “You’re quite sure we’re not imposing?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Please make yourself at home.”
The three of us moved to the dining area. They sat at the table, while I prepared the meal. I set the water to boil, warmed the asparagus-and-bacon sauce in a pan, and threw together a quick salad of lettuce, tomato, onion, and green peppers. When the water boiled, I tossed in the pasta and diced some parsley while it cooked. I took the iced tea from the fridge and filled three glasses. Mariye and her aunt watched me bustle about as if witnessing a rare and strange event. Shoko asked if there was something she could do. No, I replied, she should just relax—I had everything under control.
“You seem so at home in the kitchen,” she said, impressed.
“That’s because I do this every day.”
I don’t mind cooking at all. In fact, I’ve always liked working with my hands. Cooking, simple carpentry, bicycle repair, yard work. I’m useless when it comes to abstract, mathematical thought. Mental games like chess and puzzles are just too taxing for my simple brain.
We sat down at the table and began to eat. A carefree lunch on a sunny Sunday afternoon in autumn. And Shoko was a perfect lunchtime companion. She was gracious and witty, full of things to talk about and with a great sense of humor. Her table manners were elegant, yet there was nothing pretentious about her. I could tell she came from a good family and had attended the most expensive schools. Mariye left all the talking to her aunt and concentrated on her meal. Later, Shoko asked for my recipe for the sauce.
We had almost finished our lunch when the front doorbell gave a cheerful ring. It was no surprise to me, for just a moment earlier I thought I had heard the deep purr of a Jaguar engine. That sound—the polar opposite of the whisper of the Toyota Prius—had registered in that narrow layer between my conscious and unconscious minds. So it was hardly a “bolt from the blue” when the bell chimed.
“Excuse me for a second,” I said, rising from my chair and putting my napkin down. Leaving the two of them at the table, I went to the front door. What would happen now? I didn’t have a clue.
34
COULDN’T RECALL THE LAST TIME I CHECKED MY TIRES’ AIR PRESSURE
I opened the door, and there stood Menshiki.
He was wearing a white button-down shirt, a fancy wool vest with an intricate pattern, and a bluish-gray tweed jacket. His chinos were a light mustard color, his suede shoes brown. A coordinated and comfortable outfit, as always. His white hair glowed in the autumn sun. The silver Jaguar was behind him, parked next to the blue Toyota Prius. Sid
e by side, the two cars resembled someone with crooked teeth laughing with his mouth wide open.
I gestured for him to enter. He was so tense his face looked frozen, like a plastered wall only half dry. Needless to say, I had never seen him like this before. He was always so cool, holding himself in check with his feelings packed out of sight. He had been that way even after an hour entombed in a pitch-black pit. Yet now he was as white as a sheet.
“Do you mind if I come in?” he said.
“Of course not,” I answered. “We’re almost through with lunch. So do come in.”
“I really don’t want to interrupt your meal,” he said, glancing at his watch in what seemed a reflex motion. He stared at it for a long time, his face blank. As if he had a quarrel with how the second hand was moving.
“We’ll be done soon,” I said again. “It’s a very basic meal. Let’s have coffee together afterward. Please wait in the living room. I’ll make the introductions there.”
Menshiki shook his head. “Introductions might be premature at this stage. I stopped by assuming they’d already left. I wasn’t planning to meet them. But I saw an unfamiliar car parked in front and wasn’t sure what to do, so I—”
“You came at the perfect time,” I said, cutting him off. “Nothing could be more natural. Just leave everything to me.”
Menshiki nodded and began to take off his shoes. Yet for some reason he seemed to have forgotten how. I waited until he had struggled through the procedure and showed him into the living room. He’d been there several times before, yet he stared at the room as though it was his first visit.
“Please wait here,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “Just sit down and relax. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.”
I left Menshiki sitting there by himself—though it worried me a bit—and went back to the dining area. Shoko and Mariye had finished their meal in my absence. Their forks rested on empty plates.
“Do you have a visitor?” Shoko asked in a worried voice.
“Yes, but it’s all right. Someone from the neighborhood just happened to stop by. I asked him to wait in the living room. We’re on friendly terms, so there’s no need for formality. I’ll just finish my meal first.”
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