Killing Commendatore: A novel (22 page)

I didn't know how to respond, and Menshiki didn't go any further. He waved to me out the window, revving the V8 engine so it rumbled pleasantly, and he and the still-not-dry portrait vanished from sight.

At one p.m. on Saturday afternoon my girlfriend drove over in her red Mini. I went out to greet her when she arrived. She had on green sunglasses and a light-gray jacket over a simple beige dress.

“You want to do it in the car? Or do you prefer the bed?” I asked.

“Don't be silly,” she laughed.

“Doing it in the car doesn't sound so bad. Figuring out how to manage it in a cramped space.”

“Someday soon.”

We sat in the living room and drank tea. I told her about how I'd just managed to finish the portrait (or portrait-like painting) of Menshiki I'd been struggling with. And how it was totally different from any of the portraits I'd done professionally. Her interest seemed piqued.

“Can I see the painting?”

I shook my head. “You're a day late. I wanted to get your opinion on it, but Mr. Menshiki already took it home. The paint wasn't completely dry yet, but it seemed like he wanted to take possession as soon as he could. He seemed worried somebody else might take it away.”

“So he liked it.”

“He said he did, and I don't have any reason to doubt him.”

“The painting's successfully completed, and the person who commissioned it likes it. So all's well that ends well?”

“I guess,” I said. “And I'm happy with it. I've never done that type of painting before, and I think it's opened up some new possibilities.”

“A new style of portrait?”

“I'm not sure. This time, I arrived at that method by using Mr. Menshiki as my model. But maybe it's just coincidence that it was the framework of a portrait that proved to be the entranceway to that. I don't know if the same method would be valid if I tried it again. This might have been a special case. Having Mr. Menshiki as my model may have exerted a special power. But the important thing is I'm dying to do some serious painting now.”

“Well, congratulations on finishing the painting.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll also be receiving a fairly hefty payment.”

“The munificent Mr. Menshiki,” she said.

“And he invited me over to his place to celebrate the painting. Tuesday evening, we'll have dinner together.”

I told her about the dinner that was planned. Nothing about inviting the mummy, though. A dinner for two, with a professional cook and bartender.

“So you'll finally set foot in that chalk-white mansion, won't you,” she said, sounding impressed. “The mysterious mansion of the man of mystery. I'm so curious. Make sure to keep your eyes open, and observe what kind of place it is.”

“As much as my eyes can take in.”

“And remember exactly what sort of food was served.”

“Will do,” I said. “You know, the other day you mentioned getting new information about Mr. Menshiki.”

“That's right. Through the jungle grapevine.”

“What kind of information?”

She looked a little confused. She picked up her cup and took a sip of tea. “Let's talk about that later,” she said. “There's something I'd like to do before that.”

“Something you'd like to do?”

“Something I hesitate to put into words.”

We moved from the living room into the bedroom. Like always.

During the six years I lived my first married life with Yuzu (my former marriage, is what it might best be called), I never had a sexual relationship with any other women, not even once. Not that the opportunity didn't present itself, but during that period I was much more interested in living a peaceful life with my wife than seeking greener pastures elsewhere. And as far as sex was concerned, regular lovemaking with Yuzu more than satisfied me.

But then at a certain point, out of the blue (to me at least) she announced that she couldn't live with me any longer. An unshakable conclusion, no room for negotiation or compromise. I was shaken, with no clue how to respond. Left speechless. But I did understand one thing:
I can't stay here anymore.

So I threw some belongings into my old Peugeot 205 and set off on an aimless journey. For a month and a half at the beginning of spring I wandered through northern Japan—Tohoku and Hokkaido—where it was still cold. Until my car finally broke down for good. Every night on the trip I remembered Yuzu's body. Every single detail. How she'd react when I touched certain spots, what sort of cry she made. I didn't want to remember this, but I couldn't help it. Occasionally, as I traced those memories, I'd ejaculate. Another thing I didn't particularly want to do.

But during that long trip I only slept with one actual woman. A truly weird turn of events ended with me spending the night with a young woman I'd never seen before. Not that it was something I was looking for.

This was in a small town in Miyagi Prefecture along the coast. As I recall, it was near the border with Iwate, but I was on the move then and had passed through a number of towns that all blurred into one. My mind wasn't in a place where I could remember their names. I do recall that it had a big fishing harbor. Though most of the towns in that region had harbors. And I remember how everywhere I went the smell of diesel oil and fish tagged along.

On the outskirts of town, near the highway, was a chain restaurant, and I was eating dinner there by myself. It was about eight p.m. Shrimp curry and house salad. There were only a handful of other customers. I was in a table next to the window, reading a paperback book while I ate, when a young woman abruptly sat down across from me. No hesitation, no asking permission, without a word she sat down onto the vinyl-covered seat like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I looked up, surprised. Of course I didn't recognize her. It was the first time I'd ever laid eyes on her. It was all so sudden I didn't know what to think. There were any number of unoccupied tables, and no reason for her to share mine. Maybe that's how they did things in this town? I put down my fork, wiped my mouth with the paper napkin, and gazed at her, bewildered.

“Pretend like you know me,” the girl said. “Like we were meeting up here.” Her voice was, if anything, a bit husky. Or maybe tension made a voice temporarily hoarse. I detected a slight Tohoku accent.

I put the bookmark in my book and shut it. The woman seemed to be in her mid-twenties. She had on a white blouse with a round collar and a navy-blue cardigan. Neither one very expensive looking, or very fashionable. Ordinary clothes, like what you'd wear when you went shopping at the local supermarket. Her hair was black, cut short, with bangs falling to her forehead. She had on hardly any makeup. On her lap was a black cloth shoulder bag.

There was nothing special about her face. Pleasant enough features, but they didn't leave a strong impression. The kind of face that, if you saw her on the street, you'd forget as soon as you passed by. Her thin lips were taut, and she was breathing through her nose. Her breathing was a bit ragged, the nostrils expanding a tiny bit, then contracting. A small nose, out of balance with the size of her mouth. As if the person molding her out of clay halfway through and decided to scrape some off the nose.

“You understand? Pretend like you know me,” she repeated. “Don't look so surprised.”

“Okay,” I answered, not knowing what was going on.

“Just keep on eating,” she said. “And pretend to be talking to me like we know each other?”

“What about?”

“You're from Tokyo?”

I nodded. I picked up my fork and ate a mini tomato. Then drank some water.

“I could tell by the way you talk,” the woman said. “But why are you here?”

“Just passing through,” I said.

A waitress in a ginger-colored uniform came over, lugging a thick menu. The waitress had mammoth breasts, the buttons on her uniform ready to burst. The girl across from me didn't take the menu. She didn't even glance at the waitress. Staring straight at me she just said, “Coffee and cheesecake.” Like she was giving me the order. The waitress nodded without a word. Still lugging the menu, she left.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” I asked.

She didn't respond. She just stared at me, like she was evaluating my face.

“Can you see anything behind me? Is anybody there?” the woman asked.

I looked behind her. Just ordinary people eating in an ordinary way. No new customers had come in.

“Nothing. Nobody's there,” I said.

“Keep an eye out for a little longer,” she said. “Tell me if you see anything. Keep on talking like nothing's happened.”

Our table looked out on the parking lot. I could see my decrepit, dusty little old Peugeot parked there. There were two other cars. A small silver compact, and a tall black minivan. The minivan looked new. They'd both been parked there for a while. No new cars had driven in. The woman must have walked. Or else someone gave her a ride here.

“Just passing through?” the woman asked.

“That's right.”

“Are you on a trip?”

“You could say that,” I said.

“What kind of book are you reading?”

I showed her the book. It was Ogai Mori's
Abe Ichizoku,
a samurai tale written over a hundred years before.

“
Abe Ichizoku
,” she intoned. She handed the book back. “How come you're reading such an old book?”

“It was in the lounge of a youth hostel I stayed at in Aomori not long ago. I leafed through it, thought it was interesting, and took it with me. In exchange, I left a couple of books I'd finished reading.”

“I've never read
Abe Ichizoku
. Is it interesting?”

I'd read it once and was rereading it. The story was pretty interesting, but I couldn't figure out why, and from what sort of stance, Ogai had written it, or felt compelled to write that kind of tale. But explaining that would take too long. This wasn't a book club. And this woman was just bringing up random topics so our conversation seemed natural (or at least so that it looked that way to the people around us).

“It's worth reading,” I said.

“So what sort of work?” she asked.

“You mean the novel?”

She frowned. “No. I don't care about that. I mean
you
. What kind of work do
you
do for a living?”

“I paint pictures,” I said.

“You're an artist,” she said.

“You could say that.”

“What sort of paintings?”

“Portraits,” I said.

“By portraits you mean those paintings you see hanging on the wall in the president's office in companies? The ones where big shots look all full of themselves?”

“That's right.”

“That's your specialty?”

I nodded.

She said no more about painting. She might have lost interest. Most people in the world, unless they're the ones being painted, have zero interest in portraits.

Right then the automatic door at the entrance slid open and a tall, middle-aged man came in. He had on a black leather jacket and a black golf cap with a golf company's logo on it. He stood at the entrance, gave the whole diner a once-over, chose a table two over from ours, and sat down, facing us. He took off his cap, finger-combed his hair a couple of times, and carefully studied the menu the busty waitress brought over. His hair was cut short, and had some white mixed in. He was thin, with dark, suntanned skin. His forehead was lined with a series of deep, wavy wrinkles.

“A man just came in,” I told her.

“What does he look like?”

I gave her a quick description.

“Can you draw him?” she asked.

“You mean a likeness?”

“Yes. You're an artist, aren't you?”

I took a memo pad from my pocket, and, using a mechanical pencil, quickly sketched the man. Even added some shading. While I drew it I didn't need to glance over at him. I have the ability to grasp the features of a person quickly and etch them into my memory. I passed the drawing across the table to her. She took it, and stared at it, eyes narrowed, for a long time, like a bank teller examining dubious handwriting on a check. Finally she laid the memo page on the table.

“You're really good at drawing,” she said, looking at me. She sounded genuinely impressed.

“It's what I do,” I said. “So, do you know this man?”

She didn't reply, just shook her head. Her lips tight, her expression unchanged. She folded the drawing up twice, and stuffed it away in her shoulder bag. I couldn't figure out why she would keep something like that. She should have just crumpled it up and thrown it away.

“I don't know him,” she said.

“But you're being followed by him. Is that what's going on?”

She didn't reply.

The same waitress brought over her coffee and cheesecake. The woman kept quiet until the waitress had left. She sliced a bite of the cheesecake with her fork, then pushed it from side to side on the plate. Like a hockey player practicing on the ice before a game. She finally put the piece in her mouth and, expressionless, chewed slowly. Once she finished it she poured a hint of cream into her coffee and took a sip. She nudged the plate with the cheesecake to one side, as if it was no longer needed.

A white SUV had joined the cars in the parking lot. A stocky, tall car, with solid-looking tires. Apparently driven by the man who'd just come in. He'd parked the car facing in, not backing into the spot as was more usual. On the cover of the spare tire attached to the luggage compartment were the words
SUBARU FORESTER
. I finished my shrimp curry. The waitress came over to take away the plate, and I ordered coffee.

“Have you been traveling for a long time?” the woman asked.

“It'll be a long trip,” I said.

“Is it fun to travel?”

I'm not traveling for fun, is how I should have answered. But that would have made things long and complicated.