“He just sat on the stool in the studio.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s it. Nothing but that.”
“By stool you mean that old three-legged chair, the round one?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
Masahiko thought for a moment.
“Maybe he is reaching the end,” he said in a flat voice. “They say that in our last hours, our spirit returns to where we feel we’ve left something undone. From what I know of my father, that would be the studio.”
“But from what you’ve told me, he has no memory left.”
“Yes, memory in the conventional sense, anyway. But his spirit’s still there. His brain just can’t access it any longer. The circuit’s broken—his mind isn’t connected. But his spirit remains, behind the scenes. It’s probably the same as ever.”
“That makes sense,” I said.
“Weren’t you scared?”
“By the dream?”
“Yeah. I mean it sounds awfully real.”
“No, I wasn’t afraid. But it did feel very strange. Like the man himself was right there.”
“Maybe it really was him,” Masahiko said.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t let on that Tomohiko Amada had likely returned specifically to view Killing Commendatore (actually, I might have invited him—had I not unwrapped the painting, he might not have shown up). If I told his son, I would have had to explain the whole story, from the moment I stumbled across the painting in the attic to when I opened it without permission and, even more blatantly, chose to hang it on the studio wall. I knew I would have to let Masahiko know eventually, but I didn’t want to raise the issue at this juncture.
“Anyway,” he said, “last time we met I mentioned there was a matter I needed to talk to you about? But we didn’t have enough time then. Remember?”
“Yeah.”
“So why don’t I stop by one of these days and fill you in. Okay?”
“This house is yours, you know. Come whenever you like.”
“How about this weekend? I’m thinking of visiting my father in Izu Kogen, so I could stop by on my trip back. It’s right on the way.”
I told him he was welcome anytime except Wednesday and Friday nights and Sunday morning. My art class was on Wednesday and Friday and Mariye’s sitting was on Sunday.
He figured he’d be able to make it Saturday night. “I’ll let you know beforehand,” he said.
After our phone call, I went into the studio and sat on the stool. The wooden stool that Tomohiko Amada had occupied the night before. As soon as I sat down, it hit me—this stool was no longer mine. No, the long years Tomohiko Amada had spent sitting on it painting made it his, now and forever. To the uninformed, it looked like no more than an old dinged-up, three-legged chair, but it was infused with his will. I had borrowed it without permission, that was all.
I sat there and studied Killing Commendatore on the wall, as I had done countless times before. It rewarded multiple viewings—its depth allowed for so many different ways of looking at it. This time, though, I felt I wanted to inspect it from an entirely new angle. What was there that had made Tomohiko Amada return to it at the end of his life, to see it one last time?
I spent a long time sitting there, just studying the painting. I chose the same position, the same angle, even adopted the same posture that Tomohiko Amada’s living spirit or alter ego had taken the night before, and tried to focus on it with the same intense concentration. Yet I couldn’t find that something I had previously missed.
* * *
—
When I grew tired of thinking, I went outside. Menshiki’s silver Jaguar was still parked in front of my house, at a slight remove from my Toyota Corolla station wagon. It had been sitting there all night, waiting quietly for its master’s return, like an intelligent, well-trained pet.
I strolled on past the house, musing about Killing Commendatore in a vague sort of way. Walking the little path through the woods, I had the distinct impression that someone was spying on me from behind. As if Long Face had pushed up the square lid of his hole and was secretly observing me from the corner of the painting. I whipped around and looked back. But nothing was to be seen. No hole in the ground, no Long Face. Just a deserted leaf-strewn path wending through the quiet woods. This pattern repeated itself a number of times. But each time I spun around no one was there.
Then again, it might well be that the hole and Long Face were there only as long as I didn’t turn around. Perhaps they could tell when I was about to look back, and hid themselves at that moment. Like a child playing a game.
I passed through the woods to the very end of the path, the first time I’d gone that far. I figured the entrance to Mariye’s secret passageway had to be nearby. Yet I couldn’t locate it. “You really have to pay attention to find it,” she had said, and it did seem to be well camouflaged. In any case, she had taken the passageway after dark to reach my place from the adjoining mountain, alone and on foot. Past the thickets and through the woods.
The path came to an abrupt end at a small, circular clearing. The overhanging trees thinned out, so I could see pieces of sky. I found a flat stone bathed in a small pool of light, sat down, and looked through the tree trunks at the valley below. I imagined that at any minute Mariye might pop up out of her secret passageway, wherever that was. But of course no one appeared. My only companions were birds, who hopped from limb to limb and then flew off again. They moved about in pairs, each chirping loudly to let the other know where they were. I had once read an article describing how certain birds mate for life, and how when one died, the survivor spent the rest of their days alone. It goes without saying that they never had to sign and seal official divorce papers sent by certified mail from a lawyer’s office.
A truck selling fresh produce passed in the distance, its driver listlessly broadcasting his wares over its loudspeaker. No sooner was his voice out of earshot than there was a loud rustle in the bushes nearby. What was it? It didn’t sound human. A wild animal was more likely. For a scary second I thought it might be a wild boar (boars and hornets were the most dangerous things in the area), but then the sound abruptly stopped.
I stood up and started walking back to the house. When I passed the small shrine I checked the pit, just to make sure. The planks were in place, the stone weights neatly arranged on top. They hadn’t been moved, as far as I could tell. Fallen leaves covered the boards. They had lost their bright colors and turned sodden in the rain. So young and fresh in spring, their quiet death had come now, in late autumn.
As I stared at the planks, I began to feel that Long Face might poke his elongated, eggplant-shaped head out of the pit at any minute. But the planks didn’t budge. Obviously. Long Face’s hole was square, not round, and was smaller and more personal in scale. Moreover, this hole was home to the Commendatore, not Long Face. Or at least home to the Idea that had borrowed the Commendatore’s form. It had been the Commendatore that had rung the bell to call me here, and had made me open the pit.
Everything started with this pit. After Menshiki and I had pried open the lid with a backhoe, strange things had started happening one after another. Then again, it might have all begun when I had found Killing Commendatore in the attic and removed it from its packaging. That was the correct sequence. Or perhaps the two events acted in tandem. Killing Commendatore could have been what called the Idea to the house. The appearance of the Commendatore could have been my reward for liberating the painting. Try as I might, I couldn’t tell what was the cause, and what was the result.
Menshiki’s Jaguar was gone when I got back to the house. He had probably come by taxi to pick it up. Or else sent one of the people who worked for him to collect it. Whichever the case, my mud-spattered Toyota Corolla was left there, parked forlornly outside my front door. Menshiki had been right—I should check the tire
s one of these days, though I hadn’t bought an air pressure gauge and probably never would.
I went to the kitchen to start making lunch, but no sooner had I picked up a knife than I realized I was no longer ravenously hungry. Instead, I was very sleepy. I got a blanket, stretched out on the living room sofa, and promptly drifted off. I had a dream, a short one. It was clear and very vivid. But I couldn’t remember anything about it. Just that it was clear and vivid. It felt as though a fragment of real life had slipped into my sleeping mind by mistake. Then the moment I awoke, it fled like a quick-footed animal, leaving no trace behind.
42
IF IT BREAKS WHEN YOU DROP IT, IT’S AN EGG
The next week flew by. I spent my mornings focused on my painting, and my afternoons reading, taking walks, and doing whatever housework needed to be done. One day blended into the next. My girlfriend showed up on Wednesday and we spent the afternoon making love. The constant creaking of my old bed really cracked her up.
“It’s going to fall to pieces before long,” she predicted during a pause in our exertions. “There’ll be nothing left but splinters—we won’t be able to tell if they’re wood or pretzel sticks.”
“Maybe we should try to make love more quietly.”
“Maybe Captain Ahab should have hunted sardines,” she said.
I thought about that for a moment. “Are you saying some things in this world can’t be changed?”
“Kind of.”
A short time later, we were back on the rolling seas, in pursuit of the great white whale. Some things really can’t be changed so easily.
* * *
—
Each day, I worked a little on Mariye Akikawa’s portrait. My initial sketch had established the skeleton, and now I was filling it out. I tried combining various colors to come up with the right tone for the background. Her face had to sit naturally over that foundation. These tasks tided me over as I waited for her next visit to the studio on Sunday. Some parts of my job were carried out while the model was present, while other preparatory work had to be done before the model’s arrival. I loved both. I could take my time mulling over the various elements, and experiment to find just the right color, just the right style. I enjoyed the hands-on nature of this work, and the challenge of creating an environment from which the subject would spring to life.
While preparing Mariye’s portrait, I began working on a different canvas—a painting of the pit behind the shrine. The pit had etched itself in my mind with such force that I didn’t need it in front of me. I painted the scene in minute detail. The style was purely realistic, the viewpoint objective. I avoided objective representation in my art (except, of course, the portraits that were my “day job”), but that didn’t mean I couldn’t do it. When I wanted to, I could paint so precisely that the result could be mistaken for a photograph. I used that hyperrealistic style occasionally to change my mood, or refresh the fundamentals of my craft. I never showed those paintings to anyone, though—they were for my private enjoyment, nothing more.
In this way, the pit in the woods began to appear before me, more vivid and alive with each passing day. A mysterious round aperture half covered by thick planks. This was the pit that had given birth to the Commendatore. There were no human figures in the painting, however, just a black hole. Fallen leaves covered the earth surrounding it. A scene of perfect tranquility. Yet it felt as if someone (or something) might come crawling out of that hole any minute. The longer I pictured the scene, the stronger that premonition grew. Looking at it made my spine tingle, although I was the one who had painted it.
I worked like this every day, spending all morning alone in the studio. Palette and brush in hand, I moved back and forth between A Portrait of Mariye Akikawa and The Pit in the Woods—two more different paintings would be hard to imagine—as the mood struck me. I applied myself to the canvases while sitting on the same stool Tomohiko Amada had occupied in the dead of night the previous Sunday. Perhaps because my focus was so great, the dense presence I had felt the next morning had at some point disappeared. The old stool was once again a mere piece of furniture, there for my use. It seemed that Tomohiko Amada had gone back to where he belonged.
There were nights that week when I opened the studio door a crack to peek inside. But no one was ever there. Not Tomohiko Amada, not the Commendatore. Just an old stool parked in front of two easels. The moon cast its dim light over the objects in the room. All was quiet. Killing Commendatore hung on one wall. My unfinished work, The Man with the White Subaru Forester, was turned around so no one could see it. The two paintings I was working on, A Portrait of Mariye Akikawa and The Pit in the Woods, sat side by side on two easels. The smell of oil paint, turpentine, and poppyseed oil hung in the air. It never left, no matter how long the windows were left open. It was a special aroma, one I breathed every day, and would probably go on breathing for the rest of my life. I inhaled the air of the studio as if to confirm its presence, then quietly closed the door.
* * *
—
Masahiko called Friday night to say he was coming the next afternoon. He’d buy fresh fish from the market nearby, so I needn’t worry about dinner. I could look forward to a special treat.
“Anything more I should bring?” he asked. “I can pick up what you want on my way.”
“Can’t think of anything,” I answered. Then I remembered. “Now that you mention it, I’m out of whiskey. A friend and I polished off what you brought last time. Could you pick up another bottle? Any brand is okay.”
“I like Chivas myself. Would that do?”
“You bet,” I said. Masahiko had always been picky about food and drink. I was a different story. I ate and drank whatever was put in front of me.
When our phone call ended, I went to the studio, took Killing Commendatore down from the wall, carried it to my bedroom, and covered it. It wouldn’t do to have Tomohiko Amada’s son see the painting his father had hidden in the attic. For the time being, at least.
Now a visitor to the studio would see only A Portrait of Mariye Akikawa and The Pit in the Woods. I stood there looking back and forth at the two works in progress, comparing them. An image rose to my mind: I could see Mariye walking behind the shrine to the pit. I had a distinct sense that something might begin then. The lid was half open. The darkness was calling. Was Long Face there waiting for her? Or the Commendatore?
Could these two paintings be connected in some way?
Since moving to this house, I had been painting almost nonstop. I had completed Menshiki’s portrait on commission, then started The Man with the White Subaru Forester (brought to a halt when I had just begun to add color), and now was working on A Portrait of Mariye Akikawa and The Pit in the Woods in tandem. It struck me that the four paintings might fit together to form the beginning of a story of some kind.
Then again, perhaps I was documenting the story through my painting. That’s what it felt like, anyway. Had someone given me the role or the right to be that chronicler? If so, who? Why was I chosen, of all people?
* * *
—
Masahiko’s black Volvo station wagon came trundling up the slope shortly before four o’clock on Saturday afternoon. He loved the toughness and reliability of those old boxy cars. He’d driven this one seemingly forever, put a ton of miles on it, yet showed no inclination to trade it in for a new one. On this occasion, he brought along the special carving knife he used for fish. As always, it was razor sharp. In my kitchen, he used it to prepare the large, fresh sea bream he had just bought in Itoh. Masahiko had always been good with his hands, a man of many talents. Without a wasted motion, he filleted the fish, sliced the flesh into sashimi, and boiled the bones for broth. He lightly grilled the skin to nibble on with our drinks. I just stood there, enjoying the show. Who knows, he might have been a famous chef had he taken that route.
“Actually, it’s best to le
t sashimi sit a day until the flesh softens and the flavor comes out, but what the hell,” he said, deftly plying the knife. “You can handle it, right?”
“No problem—I’m not picky,” I said.
“You can eat any leftovers tomorrow.”
“Will do.”
“Hey, do you mind if I crash here tonight?” Masahiko asked. “I’d like to stay the evening so we can hang out and drink without feeling rushed. Drinking and driving is no good, right? I can sleep on the sofa in the living room.”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s your house, after all. Stay as long as you like.”
“Are you sure some woman won’t show up in the middle of the night?”
“No plans as of now,” I replied, shaking my head.
“Okay, then I’ll stay.”
“You don’t have to crash on the sofa—there’s a bed in the guest room.”
“No, I prefer the sofa. It’s a lot more comfortable than it looks. Slept like a baby on it back in the old days.”
He pulled out a bottle of Chivas Regal, cut the seal, and opened it. I brought ice from the refrigerator and two glasses. The gurgle of whiskey pouring into the glass was music to my ears. Like an old friend opening his heart to me. We sipped the whiskey as we finished preparing dinner.
“It’s been a hell of a long time since you and I drank like this,” Masahiko said.
“It sure feels that way. I remember us putting back a lot.”
“I put back a lot, you mean,” he said. “You never drank that much.”
I laughed. “Maybe not from your point of view, but it was a lot for me.”
I never got totally drunk. I always fell asleep first. But he was a different kind of drinker. Once he settled in for the long haul, he went all the way.
We sat across from each other at the table, sipping whiskey and eating the seafood. For starters, we shared the eight raw oysters he had bought with the sea bream. Then we dug into the sashimi. It was a bit too firm, as he had predicted, but it was delicious nonetheless, especially with the whiskey. By the end, we had polished it all off. We were already pretty full. The only other food was the crispy fish skin, small chunks of wasabi mixed with sake lees, and a dish of tofu. We topped off the meal with the soup he had prepared.
Killing Commendatore Page 49