Killing Commendatore: A novel (30 page)

“But if you avoid approaching it, you can't overcome fear and conquer yourself.”

“Precisely. If you can't do that, you can't take yourself to the next level,” Menshiki said. He seemed to be considering something. And then suddenly—at least it seemed sudden to me—he stood up, went over to the window, and looked out.

“It's still raining a little, but not so hard. Do you mind going out on the deck? There's something I want to show you.”

We walked up the steps from the dining room to the living room and then out to the deck. It was a large deck, with a Mediterranean tiled floor. We went over to the wooden railing and gazed out at the valley. It was like a tourist lookout, and we were afforded a view of the entire valley. A fine rain was still falling, more like mist at this point. The lights were still on in people's homes across the valley. It was the same valley, but viewed from the opposite side like this, the scenery looked transformed.

A section of the deck was roofed over, with a chaise longue beneath it, for sunbathing or perhaps reading. Next to it was a low glass-topped table to put drinks or books on. And also a large planter with a decorative green plant, and a tall piece of equipment of some kind, covered in plastic. There was a spotlight on the wall, but it wasn't turned on. The lights in the living room were turned down low.

“I wonder which direction my house is?” I asked Menshiki.

Menshiki pointed to the right. “It's over there.”

I stared hard in that direction, but with the lights out and the misty rain I couldn't locate it.

“I can't see it,” I told him.

“Just a moment,” Menshiki said, and walked over to where the chaise longue was. He removed the plastic cover from the piece of equipment and carried it over. It looked like a pair of binoculars on a tripod. The binoculars weren't big, but looked odd, different from normal ones. They were a drab olive green and the crude shape made it appear like some optical instrument for surveying. He placed this beside the railing, pointed it, and carefully focused.

“Here, take a look. This is where you live,” he said.

I squinted through the binoculars. They had a clear field of vision, with high magnification. Not your typical binoculars that you find in a store. Through the faint vale of misty rain the far-off scenery looked close enough to touch. And it definitely was the house I was living in. The terrace was there, the lounge chair I always sat in. Beyond that was the living room, and next to it, my painting studio. With the lights off I couldn't make out the interior, though during the day you probably could. It felt strange to see (or peek into) the place where I lived.

“Don't worry,” Menshiki said from behind me, as if reading my mind. “No need to be concerned. I don't encroach on your privacy. I mean, I hardly ever turn these binoculars on your house. Trust me. What I want to see is
something else
.”

“What do you want to see?” I said. I took my eye from the binoculars, turned around, and looked at him. His face was cool, inscrutable as always. At night on the deck, though, his hair looked whiter than ever.

“I'll show you,” Menshiki said. With a practiced hand he swung the binoculars slightly to the north and swiftly refocused. He took a step back and said, “Please take a look.”

I looked through the binoculars. In the circular field of vision I saw an elegant wooden house halfway up the mountain. A two-story building also constructed to take advantage of the slope, with a terrace facing this direction. On a map it would be my nearest neighbor, but because of the topography there was no road linking us, so one would have to go down to the bottom of the mountain and ascend once more on a separate road to access it. Lights were on in the windows, but the curtains were drawn, and I couldn't see inside. If the curtains were open, though, and the lights on, you would be able to see the people inside. Very possible with binoculars this powerful.

“These are NATO-issue military binoculars. They're not sold anywhere, so it wasn't easy to get hold of them. They're bright, so you can make out images well even in the dark.”

I took my eyes away from the binoculars and looked at Menshiki. “This house is
what you want to see
?”

“Correct. But don't get the wrong idea. I'm no voyeur.”

He glanced through the binoculars one last time, then put them and the tripod back where they were and placed the plastic cover over them.

“Let's go inside. We don't want to catch cold,” Menshiki said. We went back into the living room, and sat on the sofa and armchair. The ponytailed young man sidled over and asked if we'd like anything to drink, but both of us declined.

“Thank you very much for tonight,” Menshiki said to the young man. “Feel free to go now.” The young man bowed and withdrew.

The Commendatore was now seated on top of the piano. The black Steinway full grand. He looked like he preferred this spot to where he had been sitting before. The jewels on the top handle of his long sword caught the light with a proud glint.

“In that house over there,” Menshiki began, “lives the girl who
may be my daughter
. I like to see her, even if it's from a distance.”

For quite some time I was speechless.

“Do you remember? What I told you about the daughter my former girlfriend had, after she married another man? That she might be mine?”

“Of course. The woman who was stung by hornets and died. Her daughter would be thirteen. Right?”

Menshiki gave a short, concise nod. “She lives in
that house
with her father. In that house across the valley.”

It took a while to put the myriad questions that welled up in my mind in some kind of order. Menshiki waited silently all this time, patiently waiting for my reaction.

I said, “In other words, in order to see that young girl who might be your daughter through the binoculars every day, you bought this mansion directly across the valley. You paid a lot of money and a great deal to renovate this house
for that sole purpose
. Is that what you're saying?”

Menshiki said, “Yes, that's it. This is the ideal spot to be able to observe her house. I had to get this mansion no matter what. There was no other lot around here that I could get a building permit for. And ever since, I've been looking for her across the valley through my binoculars, almost every day. Though I should say that the days I can't see her far outnumber the days I can.”

“So you live alone, keeping people out as much as you can, so no one interferes with that pursuit.”

Menshiki nodded again. “That's right. I don't want anyone to bother me. No one to disturb things. That's what I'm looking for. I need unlimited solitude. You're the only other person in the world who knows this secret. It wouldn't be good to confess this kind of delicate thing to people.”

You got that right, I thought. And this thought occurred to me as well: Then why did you just tell
me
?

“Then why did you just tell me?” I asked Menshiki. “Is there some special reason?”

Menshiki recrossed his legs and looked straight at me. His voice was soft. “Yes, of course there's a reason. I have a special favor to ask of you.”

“I have a special favor to ask of you,” Menshiki said.

From his tone I guessed he'd been waiting for the right moment to bring this up. And that this was the real reason he had invited me (and the Commendatore) to dinner. In order to reveal his secret and bring up this request.

“If it's something I can help with, of course,” I said.

Menshiki gazed into my eyes, and then spoke. “More than something you can help with, it's something only
you
can help with.”

I was suddenly dying for a cigarette. When I got married I used that as the incentive to stop smoking, and in the nearly seven years since, I hadn't smoked a single cigarette. It was tough quitting—I'd been a pretty heavy smoker—but nowadays I never had the urge. But at that instant, for the first time in forever, I thought about how great it would be to have a cigarette between my lips and light it. I could hear the scratch of the match.

“What could that possibly be?” I asked. Not that I particularly wanted to know—I'd prefer to get by not knowing—but the way the conversation was going, I had to ask.

“Well, I'd like you to paint her portrait,” Menshiki said.

In my head I had to dismantle the context of his words, then reassemble it all. Though it was a very simple context.

“You mean you want me to paint the portrait of this girl who
may be
your daughter.”

Menshiki nodded. “Exactly. That's what I want you to do. And not from a photograph, but actually have her pose for you and paint the picture with her as the model. Have her come to your studio, like when you painted me. That's my only condition. How you paint her is up to you—do it any way you want. I promise I won't have any other requests later on.”

I was at a loss for words. Several questions immediately occurred to me, and I asked the first one that came to mind. “But how can I convince the girl to do that? I might be her neighbor, but I can't very well just suggest to a young girl I don't know that
I want to paint your portrait, so would you model for me?
”

“No, of course not. That would make her suspicious for sure.”

“Then do you have any good ideas?”

Menshiki looked at me for a time, then, like quietly opening a door and tiptoeing into a back room of a house, he slowly opened his mouth. “Actually, you already know her. And she knows you very well.”

“I already know her?”

“You do. Her name is Mariye—Mariye Akikawa.
Aki
—the character for ‘autumn'—and
kawa,
‘river.'
Mariye
is spelled out in hiragana. You do know her, right?”

Mariye Akikawa. I'd heard the name before, but it felt like some temporary obstruction was keeping me from putting name and face together. Finally the pieces fell into place.

I said, “Mariye Akikawa is in my children's art class in Odawara, isn't she?”

Menshiki nodded. “That's right. Exactly. You're her painting teacher.”

Mariye Akikawa was a small, quiet thirteen-year-old girl in the children's art class I taught. The class was for elementary school children, and as a junior high student, she was the eldest, but she was so reserved she didn't stand out at all, even though she was with the younger children. She always sat in a corner, trying to stay under the radar. I remembered her because something about her reminded me of my late sister, and she was about the same age as my sister when she passed away.

Mariye Akikawa hardly ever spoke in class. If I said something to her she just nodded, with barely a word in response. When she absolutely had to say something, she spoke it in such a small voice I often had to ask her to repeat herself. She seemed tense, unable to look me straight in the eye. But she loved painting, and the expression in her eyes radically transformed whenever she held a brush and was working on a canvas. Her gaze became focused, her eyes filled with an intense gleam. And her paintings were quite appealing. Not skilled, exactly, but eye-catching. Her use of colors was especially unique. All in all, a curious sort of girl.

Her glossy black hair fell straight down, her features as lovely as a doll's. So beautiful, in fact, when you looked at her whole face, there was the sense of it being detached from reality. Her features were objectively attractive, but most people would hesitate to label her beautiful. Something—perhaps that special raw, unpolished aspect that certain young girls exude in adolescence—interfered with the flow of beauty that should have been there. But someday that blockage might be removed and she would turn into a truly lovely girl. That was still a ways off, though. Now that I thought of it, my sister's features were similar in that way. I often used to think she didn't appear as beautiful as I knew she could be.

“So Mariye Akikawa
might
be your real daughter. And she lives in the house across the valley,” I said. “And I'm to paint a portrait with her as model. That's what you're asking?”

“I'd prefer to see it as a
request,
rather than that I'm
commissioning
the work. And if you're okay with it, once the painting is finished I'd like to buy it and hang it on the wall in this house. That's what I want. Or rather what I'm requesting.”

Still, there was something about all this I couldn't quite swallow. I had a faint apprehension that things wouldn't simply end there.

“And that's it? That's all you want?” I asked.

Menshiki slowly inhaled and breathed out. “Honestly, there's one other thing I'd like you to do.”

“Which is—?”

“A very small thing.” His voice was quiet, but with a certain force behind it. “When she's sitting for the portrait, I'd like to visit you. Make it seem like I just happened to stop by. Once is enough. And it can be for just a short time, I don't mind. Just let me be in the same room as her, and breathe the same air. I won't ask for anything more. And I can assure you I won't do anything to get in your way.”

I thought about it. And the more I did, the more uncomfortable I felt. I've never been cut out to act as an intermediary. I don't enjoy getting caught up in the flow of somebody else's strong emotions—no matter what emotions they might be. The role didn't suit me. But the fact was that I also wanted to do something for Menshiki. I had to think carefully about my reply.

“We can talk about that later on,” I said. “The first thing is whether or not Mariye will agree to sit for the painting. That's the first step. She's a very quiet girl, like a bashful cat. She might not want to model. Or else her parents might not give permission. They don't really know my background, so they'll be pretty wary, I would imagine.”

“I know Mr. Matsushima very well, the man who runs the arts-and-culture center,” Menshiki said coolly. “And I'm also, coincidentally, an investor, a financial supporter of the school. I think if Mr. Matsushima puts in a good word, things will go smoothly. You're an upright person, an artist with a solid career, and if he recommends you, I think it will assuage any concerns that her parents might have.”

He's already got it all mapped out, I thought. He's already anticipated what might happen, like the opening moves of a game of go. Nothing
coincidental
about it.

Menshiki went on. “Mariye Akikawa's unmarried aunt takes care of her. Her father's younger sister. I believe I mentioned this before, but after Mariye's mother died, this aunt came to live with them and has been like a mother to Mariye. Her father is too busy with work to be very involved. So as long as the aunt is persuaded, things should work out fine. Once she agrees to have Mariye model, I would expect the aunt to accompany her to your house as her guardian. There's no way she'd allow a young girl to go by herself to the house of a man living alone.”

“But will she really give permission for Mariye to model?”

“Let me handle that. As long as you agree to paint her portrait, I'll take care of any other practical issues that come up.”

I had little doubt he'd be able to “take care of” any of these other “practical issues.” That was his forte. But was it good for me to get so deeply involved in those problems—all these complex interpersonal relations? Didn't Menshiki have his own plans and intentions that went beyond what he was revealing to me?

“Can I be totally honest with you?” I said. “Maybe it isn't my place to say this, but I'd like you to hear me out.”

“Of course. Say whatever you want.”

“Isn't it better, before you put this plan into action, that you determine whether or not Mariye Akikawa really
is
your child? If you find out she isn't, then there's no need to go to all this trouble. It might not be easy, but there has to be a way. I think if anyone could discover that, you could. Even if I paint her portrait, and it's hanging next to yours, that's not going to solve anything.”

Menshiki paused before replying. “If I wanted to scientifically determine if Mariye Akikawa is related by blood to me, I could. It might take some effort, but it's not impossible. The thing is—I don't want to.”

“Why not?”

“Because whether she's my child or not isn't a determining factor.”

I gazed at him, mouth shut. He shook his head, his abundant white hair waving, like it was fluttering in the breeze. When he spoke, his voice was calm, like he was explaining to some large, intelligent dog how to conjugate simple verbs.

“I'm not saying either way is fine. It's just that I don't feel like determining the facts. Maybe Mariye Akikawa is my biological child. And maybe she isn't. But what if I do determine that she's my real child—then what? I announce to her that I'm her real father? Try to get custody? I can't do that.”

Menshiki shook his head again, rubbing his hands together on his lap like it was a cold night and he was warming himself before a fireplace. He continued.

“Mariye Akikawa is living a peaceful life in that house with her father and her aunt. Yes, her mother died, but the family—despite some issues her father has—is relatively healthy and functional. She's close to her aunt. She's made a life for herself. If I suddenly appear on the scene announcing that I'm her real father, even if I could prove it scientifically, will that solve anything? The truth will actually confuse things. And it's not going to make anyone happy. Including me.”

“So you'd prefer to keep things the way they are, rather than let the truth come out.”

Menshiki spread his hands on his lap. “In a word, yes. It took some time for me to arrive at that conclusion, but my feelings are firm. I plan to live the rest of my life holding on to the possibility that
Mariye Akikawa is my real child
. Watching, from a distance, as she grows up. That's enough. Even if I knew for sure she was my child, that wouldn't make me happy. The sense of loss would be all the more painful. And if I knew she
wasn't
my child, that would, in a different sense, also deepen the sense of loss. Or maybe crush me. Either way there's no happy result. Can you follow what I'm trying to say?”

“I think so. At least in theory. But if I were in your position, I'd want to know the truth. Theory aside, it's natural for people to want to know the truth.”

Menshiki smiled. “You're still young, so that's why you say that. When you get to be my age, you'll understand how I feel. How much loneliness the truth can cause sometimes.”

“So what you're after is not to know the unmitigated truth, but to hang her portrait on your wall, gaze at it every day, and ponder the possibilities. Are you sure that's enough?”

Menshiki nodded. “It is. Instead of a stable truth, I choose unstable possibilities. I choose to surrender myself to that instability. Do you think that's unnatural?”

I did indeed. Or at least I didn't see it as natural. I wouldn't go so far as to call it unhealthy, though. But that was Menshiki's problem, not mine.

I glanced over at the Commendatore seated on top of the Steinway. Our eyes met. He raised both index fingers upward and spread them apart, as if to say,
Let's put that answer on hold
. Then he pointed with his right index finger to a watch on his left wrist. Of course the Commendatore wasn't wearing a watch. He was just pointing to where one would be. And of course what that meant was,
We should be leaving soon
. The Commendatore's advice to me, as well as a warning. I decided to heed it.

“Could I have a little time to get back to you on this? It's a delicate matter, and I need time to consider it.”

Menshiki held up his hands from his lap. “Of course. Consider it as long as you'd like. I'm not trying to rush you. I know I may be asking too much.”

I stood up and thanked him for the dinner.

“Ah, there's one thing I forgot to tell you,” Menshiki said, as if suddenly remembering. “It's about Tomohiko Amada. We talked earlier, didn't we, about how he'd studied abroad, in Austria? About how, just before World War Two broke out, he rushed back home?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I researched it a bit. I'm interested, too, in what was behind all that. It happened a long time ago, and I don't have all the facts, but there were rumors then of some sort of scandal.”

“A scandal?”

“That's right. Amada was apparently caught up in an aborted assassination attempt in Vienna. It turned into a political crisis, and the Japanese embassy in Berlin got involved and secreted him back to Japan. According to certain rumors. This was right after the
Anschluss
. You know about the
Anschluss,
I assume?”

“That was when Germany annexed Austria in 1938.”

“Correct. Hitler incorporated Austria into Germany. There was a lot of chaos, and the Nazis finally took over all of Austria pretty much by force, and the nation of Austria vanished. This was in March 1938. The place was in turmoil, and in the confusion of the moment a lot of people were murdered. Assassinated, or murdered and made to look like suicides. Or else sent to concentration camps. It was during this time that Tomohiko Amada studied in Vienna. Rumor had it that he fell in love with an Austrian woman and got mixed up with an underground resistance group comprised largely of college students, who plotted to assassinate a high-ranking Nazi official. Not the sort of thing either the German government or the Japanese government would condone, for they'd signed a mutual defense pact only a year and a half before this, and the relationship between the two countries was growing closer all the time. Both were dead set on avoiding anything that would hinder their pact. Though Tomohiko Amada was still young, he had already made a name for himself as an artist in Japan, and his father was a large landowner, a locally politically influential person. A person like that couldn't just be secretly blotted out.”