Killing Commendatore: A novel (21 page)

“Oh, that's right,” Menshiki said. He glanced at his watch. “I'd totally forgotten. You teach art at the school near Odawara Station, don't you. Do you need to leave soon?”

“I'm okay, I still have time,” I said. “And there's something I need to talk with you about.”

“And what would that be?”

“Truthfully, the painting is already finished. In a sense.”

Menshiki frowned ever so slightly. He looked straight at me, as if checking out something deep inside my eyes.

“By painting, you mean my portrait?”

“Yes,” I said.

“That's wonderful,” Menshiki said. A slight smile came to his face. “Really wonderful. But what did you mean by ‘in a sense'?”

“It's hard to explain. I've never been good at explaining things.”

“Take your time and tell it to me the way you'd like to,” Menshiki said. “I'll sit here and listen.”

I brought the fingers of both of my hands together on my lap.

Silence descended as I chose my words, the kind of silence that makes you hear the passing of time. Time passed very slowly on top of the mountain.

“I got the commission from you,” I said, “and did the painting with you as model. But to tell the truth, it's not a
portrait
, no matter how you look at it. All I can say is it's a
work done with you as model
. I can't say how much value it has, as an artwork, or as a commodity. All I know for sure is it's
a work I
had to paint
. Beyond that I'm clueless. Truthfully, I'm pretty confused. Until things become clearer to me it might be best to keep the painting here and not give it to you. I'd like to return the advance you paid. And I am extremely sorry for having used so much of your valuable time.”

“In what way is it—not a portrait?” Menshiki asked, choosing his words deliberately.

“Up till now I've made my living as a professional portrait painter. Essentially in portraits you paint the subject the way he wishes to be portrayed. The subject is the client, and if he doesn't like the finished work it's entirely possible he might tell you, ‘I'm not going to pay money for this.' So I try not to depict any negative aspects of the person. I pick only the good aspects, emphasize those, and try to make the subject appear in as good a light as I can. In that sense, in most cases it's hard to call portraits works of art. Someone like Rembrandt being the exception, of course. But in this case, I didn't think about you as I painted, but only about myself. To put it another way, I prioritized the ego of the artist—myself—over you, the subject.”

“Not a problem,” Menshiki said, smiling. “I'm actually happy to hear it. I told you I didn't have any requests, and wanted you to paint it any way you liked.”

“I know. I remember it well. What I'm concerned about is less how the painting turned out and more about
what I painted there
. I put my own desires first, so much that I might have painted something I shouldn't have. That's what I'm worried about.”

Menshiki observed my face for a time, and then spoke. “You might have painted something inside me that you shouldn't have. And you're worried about that. Do I have that right?”

“That's it,” I said. “Since all I thought of was myself, I loosened the restraints that should have been in place.”

And maybe extracted something from inside you that I shouldn't have
, I was about to say, but thought better of it. I kept those words inside.

Menshiki mulled over what I'd said.

“Interesting,” he finally said, sounding like he meant it. “A very intriguing way of looking at things.”

I was silent.

“I think my self-restraint is pretty strong,” Menshiki said. “I have a lot of self-control, I mean.”

“I know,” I said.

Menshiki lightly pressed his temple with his fingers, and smiled. “So that painting is finished, you're saying? That
portrait
of me?”

I nodded. “I feel it's finished.”

“That's wonderful,” Menshiki said. “Can you show me the painting? After I've actually seen it, the two of us can discuss how to proceed. Does that sound all right?”

“Of course,” I said.

I led Menshiki to the studio. He stood about six feet in front of the easel, arms folded, and stared at the painting. There was the portrait that he'd posed for. No, less a portrait than what you might call an
image
that formed when a mass of paint hit the canvas. The white hair was a violent burst of pure white. At first glance it didn't look like a face. What should be found in a face was hidden behind a mass of color. Yet beyond any doubt, the reality of Menshiki the person was present. Or at least I thought so.

He stood there, unmoving, gazing at the painting for the longest time. Literally not moving a muscle. I couldn't even tell if he was breathing or not. I stood a little ways away by the window, observing him. I wondered how much time passed. It seemed almost forever. As he observed the painting, his face was totally devoid of expression. His eyes were glazed, flat, clouded, like a still puddle reflecting a cloudy sky. The eyes of someone who wanted to keep others at a distance. I couldn't guess what he might be thinking, deep in his heart.

Then, like when a magician claps his hands to bring a person out of a hypnotic spell, he stood up straight and trembled slightly. His expression returned, as did the light in his eyes. He slowly walked over to me, held out his right hand, and rested it on my shoulder.

“Amazing,” he said. “Truly outstanding. I don't know what to say. This is exactly the painting I was hoping for.”

I could tell from his eyes that he was saying how he honestly felt. He was truly impressed, and moved, by my painting.

“The painting expresses me perfectly,” Menshiki said. “This is a portrait in the real sense of the word. You didn't make any mistake. You did exactly what you should have.”

His hand was still resting on my shoulder. It was just resting there, yet I could feel a special power radiating from it.

“But what did you do to discover this painting?” Menshiki asked me.

“Discover?”

“It was you who did this painting, of course. You created it through your own power. But you also discovered it. You found this image buried within you and drew it out. You
unearthed
it, in a way. Don't you think so?”

I suppose so, I thought. Of course I moved my hands, and followed my will in painting it.
I
was the one who chose the paints, the one who used brushes, knives, and fingers to paint the colors onto the canvas. But looked at from a different angle, maybe all I'd done was use Menshiki as a catalyst to locate something buried inside me and dig it up. Just like the heavy equipment that moved aside the rock mound behind the little shrine, lifted off the heavy lattice cover, and unearthed that odd stone-lined chamber. I couldn't help but see an affinity between these two similar operations that took place in tandem. Everything that had happened had started with Menshiki's appearance, and the ringing of the bell in the middle of the night.

Menshiki said, “It's like an earthquake deep under the sea. In an unseen world, a place where light doesn't reach, in the realm of the unconscious. In other words, a major transformation is taking place. It reaches the surface, where it sets off a series of reactions and eventually takes form where we can see it with our own eyes. I'm no artist, but I can grasp the basic idea behind that process. Outstanding ideas in the business world, too, emerge through a similar series of stages. The best ideas are thoughts that appear, unbidden, from out of the dark.”

Menshiki once more stood before the painting and stepped closer to examine the surface. Like someone reading a detailed map, he studiously checked out each and every detail. He stepped back nine feet, and with narrowed eyes gazed at the work as a whole. His face wore an expression close to ecstasy. He reminded me of a carnivorous raptor about to latch onto its prey. But what was the prey? Was it my painting, or me myself? Or something else? I had no idea. But soon, like mist hovering over the surface of a river at dawn, that strange expression like ecstasy faded, then vanished. To be filled in by his usual affable, thoughtful expression.

He said, “Generally I avoid saying anything that smacks of self-praise, but honestly I feel kind of proud to know that I didn't misjudge things. I have no artistic talent myself, and have nothing to do with creating original works, but I do know outstanding art when I see it. At least I flatter myself that I do.”

Somehow I couldn't easily accept what Menshiki was telling me, or feel happy to hear it. It may have been those sharp, raptor-like eyes that bothered me.

“So you like the painting?” I asked again to make sure.

“That goes without saying. This is truly a valuable painting. I'm overjoyed that you came up with such a powerful work using me as the model, as the motif. And of course it goes without saying that as the one who commissioned the painting, I'll take it. Assuming that's all right with you?”

“Yes. It's just that I—”

Menshiki held up a hand to cut me off. “So, if you don't mind, I'd like to invite you to my house to celebrate its completion. Would that be all right? It will be, like the old expression, a cozy little get-together. As long as this isn't any trouble for you, that is.”

“None at all, but you really don't need to do this. You've done so much already—”

“But I'd really like to. I'd like the two of us to celebrate the completion of the painting. So won't you join me for dinner at my place? Nothing fancy, just a simple little dinner, just the two of us. Apart from the cook and bartender, of course.”

“Cook and bartender?”

“There's a French restaurant I like near Hayakawa harbor. I'll have the cook and bartender over on their regular day off. He's a great chef. He uses the freshest fish and comes up with some very original recipes. Actually, for quite some time I've been wanting to invite you over, and have been making preparations. But with the painting done, the timing couldn't be better.”

It was hard to keep the surprise from showing on my face. I had no idea how much it would cost to arrange something like that, but for Menshiki, it must be a regular occurrence. Or at least something he was accustomed to arranging…

Menshiki said, “How would four days from now be? Tuesday evening. If that's good for you, I'll set it up.”

“I don't have any particular plans then,” I said.

“Tuesday it is, then,” he said. “Also, could I take the painting home with me now? I'd like to have it nicely framed and hanging on the wall by the time you come over, if that's possible.”

“Mr. Menshiki, do you really see your face within this painting?” I asked again.

“Of course I do,” Menshiki said, giving me a wondering look. “Of course I can see my face in the painting. Very distinctly. What else is depicted here?”

“I see,” I said. What else could I say? “You're the one who commissioned the work, so if you like the painting, it's already yours. Please do what you'd like with it. The thing is, the paint isn't dry yet, so be extremely careful when you carry it. And I think it's better to wait a little longer before framing it. Best to let it dry for about two weeks before doing that.”

“I understand. I'll handle it carefully. And I'll wait to have it framed.”

At the front door he held out his hand and we shook hands for the first time in a while. A satisfied smile rose to his face.

“I'll see you Tuesday, then. I'll send a car over around six.”

“By the way, you aren't inviting the mummy?” I asked Menshiki. I don't know why I said that. The mummy just suddenly popped into my head, and I couldn't help myself.

Menshiki looked at me searchingly. “Mummy? What do you mean?”

“The mummy that should have been in that chamber. The one that must have been ringing the bell every night, and disappeared, leaving the bell behind. The monk who practiced austerity to the point of being mummified. I was thinking maybe he wanted to be invited to your place. Like the statue of the Commendatore in
Don Giovanni
.”

Menshiki thought about this, and a cheerful smile came over him as if he finally got it. “I see! Just like Don Giovanni invited the statue of the Commendatore, you're wondering how would it be if I invited the mummy to our dinner?”

“Exactly. It might be karma, too.”

“Sounds good. Fine with me. It's a celebration, after all. If the mummy would care to join us, I will be happy to issue the invitation. Sounds like we'll have a pleasant evening. But what should we have for dessert?” He smiled happily. “The problem is, we can't see him. Makes it hard to invite him.”

“Indeed,” I said. “But the visible is not the only reality. Wouldn't you agree?”

Menshiki gingerly carried the painting outside. He took an old blanket from the trunk, laid it on the passenger seat, and placed the painting down on top so as not to smear the paint. Then he used some thin rope and two cardboard boxes to secure the painting so it wouldn't move around. It was all cleverly done. He always seemed to carry around a variety of tools and things in his trunk.

“Yes, what you said may be exactly right,” Menshiki suddenly murmured as he was leaving. He rested both hands on the leather-covered steering wheel and looked straight up at me.

“What I said?”

“That sometimes in life we can't grasp the boundary between reality and unreality. That boundary always seems to be shifting. As if the border between countries shifts from one day to the next depending on their mood. We need to pay close attention to that movement, otherwise we won't know which side we're on. That's what I meant when I said it might be dangerous for me to remain inside that pit any longer.”