Killing Commendatore

by Haruki Murakami

  I ate what remained of my lunch. Then I brewed a pot of coffee while the two women cleaned up the dishes.

  “Shall we have our coffee in the living room?” I asked Shoko.

  “But won’t we be intruding on you and your guest?”

  I shook my head no. “Not in the slightest. It’s a stroke of luck—this way, I can introduce you to each other. He lives on top of the slope on the other side of the valley, so I doubt you’ve ever met.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Menshiki. It’s written with the characters for ‘avoidance’ and ‘color.’ ‘Avoiding colors,’ in other words.”

  “What an unusual name!” Shoko exclaimed. “I’ve never heard anyone mention a Mr. Menshiki before. The addresses of people across the valley are close to ours, but there’s little coming and going between the two sides.”

  We placed the pot of coffee, four cups, and some milk and sugar on a tray and carried it out to the living room. To my surprise, Menshiki was nowhere to be seen. The room was deserted. He wasn’t on the terrace, either. And I doubted he was in the bathroom.

  “Where did he disappear to?” I said to no one in particular.

  “Was he here earlier?” Shoko asked.

  “Until a few minutes ago.”

  His suede shoes were gone from the entranceway. I slipped on my sandals and opened the front door. The silver Jaguar was parked exactly where he had left it. So he hadn’t returned home. The sun reflecting off the Jaguar’s windows made it impossible to tell if anyone was inside. I walked over to check. Menshiki was sitting in the driver’s seat, rummaging around for something. I tapped on the window, and he rolled it down. He looked lost.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I want to check the air pressure in my tires, but I can’t find the gauge. It should be in the glove compartment, but it’s gone.”

  “Is there some kind of rush?”

  “No, not really. I was sitting there in your living room when it started to bother me. Couldn’t recall the last time I checked.”

  “So there’s no trouble with them?”

  “No, nothing in particular. They seem normal.”

  “Then why don’t you forget about the tires for now and come back in? The coffee is made, and two people are waiting.”

  “Waiting for me?” he said in a hoarse voice. “Are they waiting for me?”

  “Yes, I told them I’d introduce you.”

  “Oh dear,” he said.

  “Why oh dear?”

  “Because I’m not ready for introductions yet. Not emotionally prepared.”

  He had the baffled, fearful look of someone ordered to jump from the sixteenth floor of a burning building to a net that looked the size of a drink coaster.

  “You should come,” I said, not mincing words. “It’s really not a big deal.”

  Menshiki nodded and got out, closing the car door behind him. He started to lock it before realizing how unnecessary that was (what thief would stray up here?), so he stuffed the key in the pocket of his chinos.

  Shoko and Mariye were waiting in the living room. They rose to greet us as we entered. My introductions were simple and straightforward. A common human courtesy.

  “Mr. Menshiki has also modeled for me. I painted his portrait. He happens to live nearby, and we’ve been friends since we met.”

  “I understand you live on the other side of the valley. Have you been there long?” Shoko inquired.

  Menshiki blanched at the mention of his home. “Yes, I’ve been living there for a few years. Let’s see, how many is it now—three years perhaps? Or is it four?”

  He turned to me as if for confirmation, but I didn’t respond.

  “Can we see your home from here?” Shoko asked.

  “Yes,” Menshiki said. “But it’s really nothing to brag about,” he added. “It’s awfully out of the way.”

  “It’s the same on this side,” Shoko said affably. “Simple shopping is a major expedition. Cell phone service and radios are hit-or-miss. And the road is terribly steep. When the snow is thick, it gets so slippery I’m afraid to take the car out. Luckily, it doesn’t happen that often—just once, five years ago.”

  “You’re right,” Menshiki said. “It rarely snows here. It has to do with the warmth of the wind coming off the ocean. The ocean exerts a powerful influence on our climate. You see…”

  “In any case,” I broke in, “we should be thankful it snows so rarely here.” I feared he was about to launch into a lecture on the structure and effects of the warm sea currents along the coast of Japan—that’s how wound up he was.

  Mariye was looking back and forth at her aunt and Menshiki throughout this exchange. She seemed to have formed no opinion about Menshiki as of yet. Menshiki, for his part, acted as though Mariye wasn’t there, focusing on her aunt as though bewitched.

  “Mariye here is letting me paint her portrait,” I said to him. “I asked her to model for me.”

  “I drive her here every Sunday morning,” Shoko said. “It’s not far as the crow flies—from your eyes to your nose, you might say—but the road twists and turns so much we have to take the car.”

  Menshiki finally turned to look at Mariye Akikawa. But his eyes didn’t focus on any part of her face—they buzzed about nervously like a fly in winter, searching for a place to land. Yet they never seemed to find one.

  “These are what I’ve drawn so far,” I said, coming to his aid. I handed him my sketchbook. “I haven’t started painting yet—we’ve just wrapped up the preliminary stage.”

  Menshiki stared at the three dessan for a long time, devouring them with his eyes. As if the drawings of Mariye somehow meant more to him than Mariye herself. This wasn’t true, of course—he simply couldn’t bring himself to face her. The dessan were a substitute, nothing more. It was the first time he had been close to her, and he was having a hard time controlling his feelings. Mariye, for her part, regarded the floundering Menshiki as though he were some kind of strange animal.

  “They’re superb,” Menshiki said. He turned to Shoko. “Each is so full of life. He’s really captured her!”

  “I totally agree,” she said, beaming.

  “All the same, Mariye is a very difficult subject,” I said to Menshiki. “Painting her is a challenge. Her expression is constantly changing, so it takes time to grasp what’s at the core. That’s why I haven’t gotten around to the actual painting stage yet.”

  “Difficult?” Menshiki said. He looked at Mariye a second time, squinting as though dazzled by her light.

  “The three dessan should show very different expressions,” I said. “The slightest facial movement radically transforms the whole atmosphere. When I paint her portrait, I have to get past those superficial differences to grasp the essence of her personality. Otherwise, I’d be conveying only part of the whole.”

  “I see,” Menshiki said, dutifully impressed. He looked back and forth between the three sketches and Mariye, comparing them. In the process, his face, which had been so pale, began to regain some of its color. Red dots popped up at first, then the dots grew to blotches the size of ping-pong balls, then baseballs, until in the end his whole face had turned rosy. Mariye watched him, fascinated, but her aunt politely turned away. I grabbed the coffee pot and poured myself another cup.

  I felt I had to break the silence. “I’m thinking of starting the actual portrait next week. You know, on canvas with real paint,” I said to no one in particular.

  “Do you have a clear image what it will look like?” asked Shoko.

  “Not yet,” I said, shaking my head. “I won’t know in any concrete way until I’m sitting in front of the canvas with a brush in my hand. Hopefully, the inspiration will hit me then.”

  “You painted Mr. Menshiki’s picture as well, didn’t you?” Shoko asked me.

&
nbsp; “Yes, last month.”

  “It’s a beautiful portrait,” Menshiki said emphatically. “The paint has to dry a bit more before it can be framed, but it’s hanging on the wall of my study. I’m not sure ‘portrait’ does it justice, though. It’s a painting of me, but of something other than me, too. I don’t know how to put it—I guess you could say it has depth. I never get tired of looking at it.”

  “You say it’s you, yet it’s not you at the same time?” Shoko asked.

  “I mean it’s a step beyond your typical portrait—it’s deeper, more profound.”

  “I want to see it,” Mariye said. They were the first words she had spoken since we had moved to the living room.

  “But Mariye…you shouldn’t invite yourself into someone’s—”

  “That’s perfectly all right!” Menshiki said, cutting off her aunt’s rebuke as if with a sharp hatchet. His tone was so jarring that we all—including Menshiki himself—were stunned.

  “Please do come take a look,” he continued after a moment’s regrouping. “It’s so rare for me to meet someone from the neighborhood. I live alone, so you needn’t worry about disturbing anyone. Any time at all would be fine.”

  Menshiki’s face was even redder by the time he finished. It appeared that we hadn’t been the only ones shocked by the urgency in his voice.

  “Do you like paintings?” Menshiki asked, this time directing his question to Mariye. His voice was back to normal.

  Mariye gave a small nod.

  “If it’s all right with you, why don’t I stop by again at this time next Sunday?” Menshiki said. “I could escort you to my home and we could all look at the painting together.”

  “But we shouldn’t inconvenience you—” Shoko said.

  “I want to see the painting!” Mariye was firm.

  * * *

  —

  In the end it was agreed that Menshiki would come to pick up the two of them the following Sunday afternoon. I was invited too, but I declined, citing an important errand. The last thing I wanted was to get sucked in any deeper. From now on, let those who were involved look after things. I would remain the outsider, however the situation turned out. I would be the mediator, nothing more—though even that had not been my intention.

  Menshiki and I accompanied the beautiful aunt and her niece outside to give them a proper send-off. Shoko looked for some time at the silver Jaguar parked next to her Prius. Like a dog lover appraising another person’s dog.

  “This is the latest model, isn’t it?” she asked Menshiki.

  “Yes, this is their newest coupe on the market,” he answered. “Do you like cars?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just that my late father drove a Jaguar sedan. I used to sit next to him, and every so often he’d let me hold the wheel. The Jaguar hood ornament takes me back to those times. Was it an XJ6? It had four round headlights, I think. And an inline six-cylinder 4.2-liter engine.”

  “That is the III series, I believe. A truly beautiful model.”

  “My father drove that car for ages, so he must have really liked it. Although he complained about the terrible mileage. And it had one minor malfunction after the other.”

  “That model in particular is a real gas guzzler. And the wiring was probably faulty. The electrical system has always been the Jaguar’s Achilles’ heel. But if it’s running smoothly, and if you don’t mind shelling out for gas, you can’t beat a Jaguar. For driving comfort and handling, no other car matches it—it’s got a charm all its own. Most people, though, are really turned off by things like gas consumption and mechanical glitches, which is why the Toyota Prius is the one flying off the lots.”

  “I didn’t buy this car,” Shoko said, as if by way of apology, gesturing toward her Prius. “My brother bought it for me because it’s safe and easy to drive, and gentle on the environment.”

  “The Prius is an excellent car,” Menshiki said. “I’ve thought of buying one myself.”

  Was he kidding? Menshiki behind the wheel of a Toyota Prius was as hard to picture as a leopard ordering a salade Niçoise.

  “This is very rude of me,” Shoko said, peering into the Jaguar’s interior, “but would it be all right if I sat in it for a minute? I just want to try out the driver’s seat.”

  “Of course,” Menshiki answered. He coughed lightly, as if to bring his voice under control. “Sit there as long as you like. Take it for a spin if you wish.”

  I was flabbergasted by how interested she was in Menshiki’s Jaguar. On the surface she was so cool and poised, not my image of a car person at all. Yet her eyes were shining when she climbed into the driver’s seat. She snuggled into the cream-colored leather upholstery, studied the dashboard with care, and took the steering wheel in both hands. Then she placed her left hand on the gearshift. Menshiki took the car key from his pocket and passed it to her through the window.

  “Turn it on if you like.”

  Shoko took the key, inserted it into the ignition next to the wheel, and rotated it clockwise. Instantly, the great feline awoke. She sat there entranced for a moment, listening to the deep purr of the engine.

  “I remember this sound well,” she said.

  “It’s a 4.2-liter V8 engine. Your father’s XJ6 had six cylinders, and the number of valves and the compression ratio were different too, but they may well sound alike. Both are sinful, though—they squander fossil fuel like there’s no tomorrow. Jaguars haven’t changed a bit on that score.”

  Shoko flipped on the right-turn signal. I heard a cheerful clicking sound.

  “This really brings back memories.”

  Menshiki smiled. “Only a Jaguar’s turn signal sounds like this. It’s unlike that of any other automobile.”

  “When I was young, I secretly practiced on the XJ6 to get my driver’s license,” she said. “The first time I drove another car I was totally confused—the parking brake wasn’t where I expected. I had no idea what to do.”

  “I know just what you mean,” Menshiki grinned. “The Brits are fussy about the funniest things.”

  “I think the interior smells a bit different than my father’s car, though.”

  “Sadly, you’re right. For a variety of reasons, Jaguar can’t use the exact same materials on its newer models. The smell changed after 2002, when Connolly Leather stopped supplying their upholstery. In fact, the Connolly company went out of business at that point.”

  “How too bad. I loved that smell. I connect it to the smell of my father.”

  “To tell the truth,” Menshiki said hesitantly, “I own another Jaguar as well, an older model. It may well have the same odor as your father’s car.”

  “Is it an XJ6?”

  “No, it’s an E type.”

  “Does that mean it’s a convertible?”

  “Correct. It’s a Series 1 roadster, made back in the mid-sixties. It still runs well, though. It’s also equipped with a six-cylinder 4.2-liter engine. An original two-seater. The top has been replaced, of course, so it’s not exactly in mint condition.”

  Most of this flew over my head—I know nothing about cars—but Menshiki’s words seemed to have made a deep impression on Shoko. They clearly shared an interest, and a fairly specialized interest at that, in Jaguars. That made me feel a little calmer. No longer did I have to think up topics to help them through their first meeting. Mariye’s boredom was palpable, though—she seemed even less into cars than me.

  Shoko got out of the Jaguar, shut the car door, and handed the key to Menshiki, who returned it to the pocket of his chinos. Then she and Mariye got in the blue Prius. Menshiki closed the door after Mariye. I was struck by the different thunk it made as it closed, nothing like the Jaguar. In this world, what we think of as a single sound can have so many permutations. Just as we know, from one note struck on the open string of a double bass, whether it’s Charlie Mingus
or Ray Brown.

  “So we’ll meet again next Sunday,” Menshiki said.

  Shoko gave Menshiki a big smile, took the steering wheel, and drove off. Menshiki and I waited until the squat rear of the Toyota Prius was out of sight before returning to the house. We sat in the living room sipping cold coffee. Neither of us spoke for some time. Menshiki looked exhausted. Like a long-distance runner who had just crossed the finish line.

  “She’s a beautiful girl,” I said at last. “Mariye, I mean.”

  “You’re right. She’ll be even prettier when she grows up,” Menshiki said. His mind seemed elsewhere.

  “What did you think, seeing her up close?” I asked.

  Menshiki smiled an uncomfortable smile. “I didn’t get a very good look, to tell the truth. I was too nervous.”

  “But you must have seen something.”

  “Of course,” he said, nodding. He paused for a long moment. “What did you think?” he asked at last, his eyes serious.

  “What do you mean, what do I think?”

  Menshiki’s face flushed again. “Do you see any similarity between Mariye’s features and mine? As an artist who has painted people’s portraits for many years, I’m interested in your professional opinion.”

  I shook my head no. “You’re right, I’m trained to take quick note of people’s facial characteristics. But that doesn’t mean I can tell whose child is whose. Some parents and children don’t look alike at all, while total strangers can appear almost identical.”

  Menshiki gave a long, deep sigh. It sounded wrenched from his entire body. He rubbed his palms together.

  “I’m not asking for a definitive judgment. I’m just asking for your personal impressions. Even the most trivial ones. I’d like to know if you noticed something, anything at all.”

  I thought for a moment. “As far as facial structure goes, I don’t see much concrete similarity. But your eyes do have something in common. In fact, it startles me every so often.”