Killing Commendatore: A novel (43 page)

Having reached that point in his account, Menshiki stopped to touch his fingers to his lips.

“Do you happen to have any whiskey in the house?” he asked.

“There's about a half a bottle of single malt,” I said.

“I don't want to impose, but could I have some? On the rocks.”

“My pleasure. But aren't you driving?”

“I'll call a cab,” he said. “No point in losing my license.”

I went to the kitchen and came back with a whiskey bottle, a ceramic bowl of ice, and two glasses. In the meantime, Menshiki put the record of
Der Rosenkavalier
that I had been listening to on the turntable. We sat back and listened to the lush strains of Richard Strauss as we sipped our whiskey.

“Are you a devotee of single malt?” Menshiki asked.

“No, this was a gift. A friend brought it. Sure tastes good, though.”

“I have a bottle of rare Scotch at home that a friend in Scotland sent to me. A single malt from the island of Islay. It's from a cask sealed by the Prince of Wales himself on his visit to the distillery there. I'll bring it on my next visit.”

“You needn't make such a fuss on my account,” I said.

“There's a small island near Islay called Jura,” he said. “Have you heard of it?”

“No,” I replied.

“It's practically uninhabited. More deer than people. Lots of other wildlife, too—rabbits, pheasants, seals. And one very old distillery. There's a spring of freshwater nearby, just perfect for making whiskey. If you mix the single malt with that water, the flavor is absolutely amazing. You can't find it anywhere else.”

“It sounds delicious,” I said.

“Jura is also known as the place where George Orwell wrote
1984
. Orwell rented a small house on the northern end of the island, really the middle of nowhere, but the winter took a terrible toll on his body. It was a primitive place, with none of the modern amenities. I guess he needed that kind of Spartan environment to write. I spent a week on that island myself. Huddled next to the fireplace each night, drinking that marvelous whiskey.”

“Why did you spend a whole week in such an out-of-the-way place all by yourself?”

“Business,” Menshiki said simply. He smiled.

Apparently, he wasn't going to let me in on what sort of business was involved. And I had no particular desire to find out.

“I really needed a drink today,” he said. “To settle myself down. That's why I'm imposing on you like this. I'll come and pick up my car tomorrow, if that's all right with you.”

“Of course, I don't mind at all.”

We sat there awhile without talking.

“Do you mind if I ask something personal?” Menshiki broke the silence. “I hope you won't take offense.”

“Don't worry, I'm not a guy who gets offended. I'll answer you if I can.”

“You've been married, correct?”

I nodded. “Yes, I was married. As a matter of fact, I just mailed off the divorce papers, signed and sealed. So I'm not sure if I'm officially married now or not. Still, it's safe to say that I
was
married. For six years.”

Menshiki was studying the ice cubes in his glass as if deep in thought.

“Sorry to pry,” he said. “But do you have any regrets about the way your marriage ended?”

I took another sip of whiskey. “How does one say ‘buyer beware' in Latin?” I asked.

“ ‘Caveat emptor,' ” Menshiki said without hesitation.

“I have a hard time remembering how to say it. But I know what it means.”

Menshiki laughed.

“Sure, I have regrets,” I replied. “But even if I could go back and rectify one of my mistakes, I doubt it would change the outcome.”

“Do you think there's something in you that's impervious to change, something that became a stumbling block in your marriage?”

“Perhaps it's my
lack
of something impervious to change that was the stumbling block.”

“But you have the desire to paint. That must be closely connected to your appetite for life.”

“There may be something I have to get past first before I can really get started with my painting, though. That's my feeling, anyway.”

“We all have ordeals we must face,” Menshiki said. “It's through them that we find a new direction in our lives. The more grueling the ordeal, the more it can help us down the road.”

“As long as it doesn't grind us into the ground.”

Menshiki smiled. He had finished his questions about my divorce.

I brought a jar of olives in from the kitchen to accompany our drinks. We nibbled on them while sipping our whiskey. When the record finished, Menshiki flipped it over. Georg Solti continued conducting the Vienna Philharmonic.

Menshiki has an ulterior motive for everything. Never wastes a move, that fellow. It is the only way he knows.

If the Commendatore was correct, what move was Menshiki making—or about to make—now? I hadn't a clue. Perhaps he was holding back for the moment, waiting for his opportunity. He said that he had “no intention” of exploiting me. Probably he was speaking the truth. Yet intentions were, in the end, just intentions. He was a savvy guy who had managed to survive and thrive in the most cutting-edge sector of the business world. If he was harboring an ulterior motive, even if it was dormant now, it would be next to impossible for me to avoid getting sucked in.

“You're thirty-six years old, right?” Menshiki said out of the blue.

“Yes, that's correct.”

“That's the best age.”

I didn't see it that way at all. But I didn't say so.

“I'm fifty-four. Too old to be fighting on the front lines in the business I was in, but still a little too young to be considered a legend. That's why you see me dawdling around like this.”

“Some become legends in their youth, though.”

“Sure, there are a few. But there's no great merit in that. In fact, it could be a real nightmare. Once you're considered a legend, you can only trace the pattern of your rise for the rest of your life. I can't think of anything more boring than that.”

“Don't you ever get bored?”

Menshiki smiled. “I can't remember ever being bored. I've been too busy.”

I could only shake my head in admiration.

“How about you?” he asked. “Have you ever been bored?”

“Of course. It happens a lot. In my case, however, boredom is an indispensable part of life.”

“Don't you find it painful?”

“I guess I've gotten used to it. So it doesn't feel like pain.”

“I bet that's because painting is so central to your existence. That's your core—your passion to create is born out of what you call boredom. Without that core, I'm sure you'd find boredom unendurable.”

“So you're not working these days, are you?”

“That's right, I'm basically retired. I do a little computer trading on the stock markets, as I've told you, but that's not out of necessity. It's more like a game, a form of mental discipline.”

“And you live in that big house all by yourself.”

“Correct.”

“And you still never get bored?”

Menshiki shook his head. “I have so many things to occupy my mind. Books I should read, music I should listen to. Data to gather, sort, and analyze. I'm used to staying active—it's a daily habit. I work out too, and when I need a change of pace, I practice the piano. And there's housework, of course. I haven't time to be bored.”

“Don't you ever worry about growing old? About becoming a lonely old man?”

“No question, I will age,” Menshiki said. “My body will decline, and I'll probably grow more and more solitary. But I'm not there yet. I have an idea what it will be like. But I'm the kind of guy who doesn't believe something until he's seen it. So I have to wait until it's sitting right in front of me. I'm not especially afraid of aging. I can't say I'm looking forward to it, but I am a little curious.”

Menshiki slowly swirled the whiskey in his glass.

“How about you?” he asked, looking me in the eye. “Are you afraid of getting old?”

“I was married for six years, and it didn't turn out so well. I didn't paint a single painting for myself during all that time. I guess people would say I squandered those years. After all, I was turning out one painting after another of a sort I don't especially like. Yet, in a way, maybe I was fortunate to have gone through that. That's how I feel these days.”

“I think I understand what you're trying to say. That there's a time in life when you have to discard your ego. Is that it?”

Perhaps, I thought. But maybe in my case it simply took me that long to discover what I'd been lugging around all that time. Had I dragged Yuzu along on that pointless, roundabout journey?

Am I afraid of growing old? I wondered to myself. Did I dread the advent of old age?

“I still have a hard time imagining it,” I said. “It may sound foolish for a man in his mid-thirties to say this, but I feel as if my life is just beginning.”

“That's not foolish at all,” Menshiki said, smiling. “You're probably right—you're just getting started.”

“You mentioned genes a few minutes ago,” I said. “That you felt you're just a vehicle receiving a set of genes from one generation and transmitting it to the next. And beyond that duty, you're no more than a clod of earth. Right?”

Menshiki nodded. “That's what I said.”

“But you don't find being a clod of earth particularly frightening, do you?”

“I may be a clod of earth,” Menshiki said, laughing, “but as clods go I'm pretty good. It may sound conceited, but I think I may even be a superior clod. I've been blessed with certain abilities. Those have limits, I know, but they're abilities nonetheless. That's why I go all out in whatever I do. I want to stretch myself as far as I can, to see what I'm capable of. I have no time to be bored. That's the best way I know of keeping fear and emptiness at arm's length.”

We drank until almost eight o'clock, at which point the bottle ran out. Menshiki stood up to leave.

“I should be on my way,” he said. “I've imposed on you for too long.”

I called for a taxi. “Tomohiko Amada's house” was all it took to identify our location. He was a famous man. The dispatcher said it would be fifteen minutes. I thanked him and hung up.

Menshiki used that time to tell me something.

“I told you earlier that Mariye's father had become deeply involved in a religious sect, didn't I?” he began.

I nodded.

“Well, it turns out that it's one of the new religions, and a shady one at that. I checked online and found out they've got a really bad track record. A number of civil suits have been filed against them. Their so-called doctrine is a pile of rubbish unworthy of the name ‘religion.' Of course, Mr. Akikawa is free to subscribe to whatever beliefs he likes. That goes without saying. But he has sunk quite a lot of money into this group. His money, company money. He had considerable wealth in the beginning, was able to manage on the monthly rents he collected. But there was a clear limit to how much he could withdraw without selling property and other assets. Now he's way past that limit—he's sold a lot of those. Clearly, an unhealthy situation. Like an octopus trying to survive by devouring its own legs.”

“Are you saying he's being preyed on by that cult?”

“Exactly. He's a real pigeon. When a group like that squeezes you, they take everything they can get. Right down to the last drop. Forgive me for saying so, but Mr. Akikawa's privileged upbringing may make him more vulnerable to that kind of thing.”

“So you're concerned about this situation.”

Menshiki sighed. “It's Mr. Akikawa's responsibility how he ends up. He's a mature adult, aware of his actions. It's not so simple for his family, though—they have no idea what's going on. Not that my worrying about them will make a bit of difference.”

“The study of reincarnation,” I said.

“It's a fascinating hypothesis,” Menshiki said. He quietly shook his head.

The taxi finally arrived. Before getting in, he offered a most courteous thanks. His complexion and his decorum were a constant, no matter how much he drank.

After Menshiki left, I brushed my teeth, climbed into bed, and fell asleep immediately. I drop off in no time at all under normal circumstances, and whiskey only accentuates that tendency.

In the middle of the night, however, a loud sound jolted me awake. I think the sound was real. Possibly, though, it took place in my dream. Its source could have been my own unconscious. Whatever its origins, it was a huge crash, as though an earthquake had struck. The impact lifted me into the air. That part was real, for sure, not a dream or a product of my imagination. I had been fast asleep, and now, an instant later, I was on the verge of tumbling from my bed, my mind on high alert.

According to the clock on the bedside table, it was past two. The time of night when the bell had usually rung. But I could not hear a bell. With winter approaching, there were no insect voices. A deep hush had fallen over the house. Outside, thick, dark clouds covered the sky. If I listened hard enough, I could hear the wind.

I felt for the lamp, switched it on, and slipped a sweater over my pajamas. I would take a quick look around the house. Something very strange had happened, or so it seemed. Had a wild boar crashed through one of the windows? Or had a small meteorite hit the roof? Probably not, but it was still a good idea to make sure. I was, after all, the caretaker of the house. And I would have a hard time falling back to sleep if I didn't find out. The crash had left me wide awake, my heart pounding.

I walked through the house flicking on lights, checking room by room. As far as I could tell, nothing was out of place. All was in order. It wasn't a big house, so I would have noticed if something was amiss. When I finished my inspection, I headed to the studio. I stepped through the door connecting it to the living room and reached for the wall switch. But some thing stopped me.
Don't turn on the light
, the thing whispered in my ear. In a small but clear voice.
Better to leave it dark.
Following its instructions, I removed my hand from the switch and closed the door behind me without a sound. Quieting my own breathing, I peered into the darkened studio.

As my eyes adjusted to the light, I became aware that someone else was in the room. The signs were unmistakable. And that someone was sitting on the wooden stool that I used when I was painting. At first, I thought it was the Commendatore. That he had materialized and returned. But this person was much bigger. The silhouette looming in the dark was that of a tall, gaunt man. The Commendatore was two feet tall, if that, but this man was close to six feet in height. He was sitting somewhat hunched over, as tall people often do. And not moving at all.

I didn't move either as I stood there looking at his back, with my own back pressed against the doorframe and my left hand near the light switch, just in case. There in the dark, in the middle of the night, we were frozen, like two statues. For some reason, I wasn't scared. My breathing was shallow and the sound of my heartbeat was hard and dry. But I felt no fear. Someone I had never seen before had come barging into my house in the middle of the night. For all I knew, it could have been a burglar. Or perhaps a ghost. Either should have frightened me. Yet for some reason, I felt neither danger nor dread.

Perhaps all the strange happenings I had been experiencing—starting with the appearance of the Commendatore—had made me immune to such weirdness. Yet there was more to it than that. What was the mysterious intruder doing there in the studio so late at night? My curiosity trumped my fear. He seemed to be lost in thought. Or maybe he was staring hard at something. The intensity of his focus was obvious, even to an observer. He had no idea that I had entered the room. Or, perhaps, my presence was beneath his notice.

I tried to quiet my breathing and control the pounding of my heart against my ribs as I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark. After a while, I began to realize what he was regarding with such ferocity. It was something hanging on the opposite wall. Which meant it had to be Tomohiko Amada's painting
Killing Commendatore
. He was sitting stock-still on the wooden stool, bent slightly forward, staring at that painting. His hands were on his knees.

At last the dark clouds covering the sky began to part, and a shaft of moonlight entered the room. It was as if an ancient tombstone had been bathed in pure, silent water, baring the secrets carved on its surface. Then the darkness returned. But only for a short time. The clouds parted again, and a pale blue light filled the room for a full ten seconds. Now, at last, I could determine the identity of the person on the stool.

His white hair fell to his shoulders. It had been uncombed for some time, for wisps jutted in every direction. Judging from his bearing, he was quite old. And withered, like a dead tree. Once, he must have had a powerful and manly physique. But now he was skeletal, wasted by age and possibly illness. That much I could tell.

His face was so emaciated it took me a while to figure out who he was. But there, in the hushed moonlight, I finally realized. I had seen only a few photographs, yet I could not mistake the face. The profile of his aquiline nose and the powerful physical aura were undeniable proof. Though the night was cold, sweat streamed from my armpits. My heart pounded even faster and harder. It seemed impossible to believe, but there was no room for doubt.

The old man was Tomohiko Amada, the artist who had created the painting. Tomohiko Amada had returned to his studio.